


it's you that's haunting me

by perfchan



Series: it's you that's haunting me [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Ghost Hunters, Ghost Hunting AU, Horror, Humor, M/M, POV Lance (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Slow Build, dudebro!Lance, minor injury, punky paranormal enthusiast!Keith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-01-09 07:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12272040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan
Summary: Keith is a loner; his interactions with others tend toward clumsy or strained, but he has a persistent enthusiasm for the paranormal. Lance is a recent college grad; caught up in his day-to-day, he wouldn’t call himself unhappy, but suddenly feels that his life lacks direction. When Lance is introduced to Keith’s ghost hunting videos, his interest is piqued and he can’t help but want to tag along. Initially opposed, Keith soon finds himself warming to the company of the living.A little tongue-in-cheek, a little cliché, and a little bit of a slow burn. A not-too-serious ghost hunting AU.





	1. Hit Like and Subscribe

 

 

***

 

Letting himself in, Lance kicks off his slides and tosses his keys in the general direction of the couch before making his way into the kitchen. He can hear Hunk mumbling to himself out on the deck so he calls over, head in the fridge, “Hey buddy, need a refill?” 

 

“Lance? Is that you?” 

 

Snorting, Lance pulls an extra beer out of the fridge and joins his friend near the grill. “No, it’s a ghost. I was just asking if you were good?” He holds up the can. 

 

Hunk accepts the drink, cracking it open. “Hey man, you never know!” 

 

“Pretty sure that I’m the only one who has keys to your house besides you.” Lance pops himself up on his usual spot at the edge of Hunk’s patio.

 

“Breaking and entering is a thing.” Hunk points out diplomatically as he seasons several very large, very impressive cuts of meat. As always, Hunk is a “go big or go home” kind of cook. 

 

Lance laughs. They’ve been friends long enough that he knows Hunk will tell him point blank if there’s anything he needs to do to help, so for now he just lounges while Hunk bustles about. Without preamble, Lance begins a long, animated rant about a customer he dealt with earlier at work, more to amuse Hunk than for any commiseration. When that peters out, he gets all the delicious details about the recipes Hunk is experimenting with for this evening’s impromptu cookout. Having a best friend who is an engineer by day and a gourmand by night has its perks. 

 

Their conversation inevitably picks back up where their earlier texts had left off. One of their mutual friends, Pidge, asked if Lance would be interested in helping Pidge’s friend Keith with his youtube channel. Something about haunted houses or something. Lance isn’t really into the idea.  

 

“Uh, no offense man, but. It’s not like you’re doing anything else?” Hunk shrugs. 

 

“Excuuuuse me? Excuse me? Not doing anything else?!” Lance slides off the railing and begins pacing around the deck, numbering on his fingers and generally being a nuisance. “One. I  _ just _ graduated. Like a week ago. Two. I’m working full time. Three. My social calendar is  _ very _ demanding. Four--” 

 

“Okay, see.” Hunk adjusts the charcoal in the grill and rearranges the steaks accordingly. Direct heat, then indirect heat, then direct heat again. Charred, yet gorgeously rare is the goal. First steaks of the summer so they’ve gotta be perfect. He continues talking, more or less ignoring the huffing noise Lance makes at being interrupted. “I wouldn’t call being stood up for two dates in a row a ‘very demanding social calendar.’ And you’ve been back home more than a week. Pretty much a solid month.” 

 

“Nyma did not stand me up, Hunk! Something came up! With her great-aunt! And she had to…” he trails off as Hunk turns to give him a look. “I’m lowkey job searching too?” He offers. 

 

“You’re highkey avoiding the future.” Hunk corrects. 

 

Coming from anybody else that would be a little too harsh. But coming from his Best Buddy and Overall Good Guy, Hunk Garrett, Lance has to admit….Hunk is right. It pays okay, but being a shift manger at the local arts and crafts store is NOT putting his Bachelor’s in Film and Media Studies to good use. And it’s definitely not what he wants to do for the rest of his life. Or even the rest of his summer. 

 

Hunk pulls the steaks off the grill and swishes open the screen door to the kitchen. Lance trails after him, watching as he starts grabbing stuff out of the cabinets, about to whip up a quick vinaigrette for a salad to go with the steaks. Hunk pauses when he sees the expression on Lance’s face. “Sorry buddy, that came out more jerk-ish than it sounded in my head.” He sets down the whisk and bowl to hold out his arms. “Hug it out?” 

 

Lance slumps against him. “Nah, you’re right.” Now that he’s out of school, the future is less clear, and it’s terrifying. This ‘being an adult’ thing is awful. “I’ll definitely think about it. Like you said, it’s a cool opportunity. Text me the guy’s channel name so I don’t forget?” 

 

Hunk nods. 

 

Lance sighs, giving him a final squeeze before letting him get back to dinner. Hunk really is the best. “Is Shay coming over tonight?” 

 

Hunk ducks his head, smiling. “Yeah. I put together a veggie burger for her earlier, new recipe. I think she’s gonna be really happy with it. As soon as I clean off the grill, that can go on. It won’t take long to cook.” 

 

Elbowing him playfully, Lance teases, “Hunk! You lady killer!” 

 

The conversation turns to Hunk’s relationship progress, or lack thereof, with his almost-girlfriend Shay. Lance insists that this random cookout  _ definitely _ counts as a date; Hunk disagrees, especially since Shay will probably bring her roomie, Allura, with her. Lance brightens. Allura has turned him down more times than he can count, sure, but she’s beautiful and snappy and always knows the juiciest gossip before anyone else. It’ll be a fun evening.  

 

*

 

So fun that by the time he gets back to his apartment, he almost doesn’t remember why Hunk would text him something as enigmatic as “red_lion_haunts.” He changes into a pair of baggy sweatpants and is halfway through the lazy version of his nighttime skincare routine by the time it comes back to him. Oh yeah. The youtube guy. 

 

Freshly cleansed, moisturized, and still pleasantly warm from good food and company, Lance opens his laptop and clicks to youtube. He types in the channel name, and wow, it actually has a decent number of subscribers. Almost 20K. He clicks the most recent video to see what “red_lion_haunts” is all about. 

 

The video begins and a guy, college age-ish, is in frame for a beat too long before introducing himself.  _ “Welcome back to my channel.” _ Lance cringes. This guy is awkward in front of the camera. Suffering secondhand embarrassment while a dude traipses around in the dark for a twenty minutes is not Lance’s jam. He hovers over the “x” ready to close the tab, but then the guy shifts, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear before looking back into the lens. Something about it makes it seem like he’s looking right at Lance, and he hesitates. 

 

_ “So, uh. Tonight. Tonight we’re spending the evening here: St Rita’s Psychiatric Asylum.” _ The video pans to a dilapidated hospital. Lance rolls his eyes. Yeah, yeah. He’s seen this episode of Ghost Hunters before. Like twenty times.  _ “Or as it was known in 1908 when construction began: Lima State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. _ ”

 

But the guy’s voice is a little strange and it makes Lance want to keep listening. It’s gravelly, like he’s out of practice with speaking. And it cracks and raises a pitch as he starts speaking faster, getting more into it. Lance smiles. It’s kinda cute. 

 

_ “The walls here are solid concrete, 14 inches thick, with steel reinforcements running down into the bedrock. This place was designed with a specific purpose in mind: to house those found guilty of crimes while insane, or otherwise too dangerous for the other state run psychiatric institutions.” _

 

The guy, Keith, begins making his way inside. It’s pitch-black-dark and Keith turns on a light he has attached on a headband around his forehead. Lance snorts, what a dweeb. He adjusts his laptop’s screen and settles back on the couch, listening to Keith’s footsteps as he travels deeper inside the building. The footage is decently shot, though the editing is amatuer. But even as raw as it is, the video is entertaining. 

 

_ “Conditions were bad here, even by the standards of the time. There were reports of over 300 attempted escapes by the year 1970. Several resulted in the deaths of the inmates.”  _ Keith flicks his eyes to the camera, a crooked smirk playing at his lips.  _ “And I’m gonna stay the night.”  _

 

Keith continues detailing the history of the building, rattling off several gruesome cases with relish. It’s clear he enjoys the history and exploring the run-down building just as much as the ghost hunting. 

 

When Keith finally reaches his destination -- the hospital’s basement morgue-- he sets down the camera so that it’s focused on him in the center of the room. Green tinged from the night vision of the camera, he poses some of the standard questions to the darkness (“ _ Are you angry about being confined here? Did the hospital staff hurt you? Are you trapped in this morgue, unable to move on? _ ”) Lance scoffs at how ridiculous it is, Keith pausing dramatically between each question. 

 

Mid-question, Keith’s head snaps around, he asks the camera directly.  _ “Did you hear that?!”   _ His eyes widen as the door behind him unlatches. 

 

“Oh shit!!!” Lance shouts to his empty apartment. He pauses the video and shoves his laptop off his lap onto the couch, sitting up a little straighter. “You have got to be kidding me,” he mutters, leaning in, as he pulls back the little red circle to replay the last few seconds. The door handle behind Keith tilts by itself and the door swings open.

 

_ “I can’t wait to review that footage, _ ” Keith grins into the camera, breathless. He swears and approaches the door, checking for anything that could have forced it open.  

 

_ “I searched the entire area, but I couldn’t identify any explanation as to why the door would have opened like it did, at that time.” _ Keith’s voiceover explains,  _ “and, if you look at the clip, slowed down, you can actually see the handle turn, seemingly by itself.” _ The video repeats in slow motion, zoomed in slightly. Lance watches the clip twice more, nose practically touching the screen. It looks legit. 

 

The video ends not long after that, the rest of the night apparently uneventful. Keith’s closing clip is shot presumably somewhere in his house, just him against a deep red background. “ _ Although I didn’t capture much in the way of EVP evidence _ ,” the hint of a smile crosses his mouth as he concludes,  _ “I definitely consider my night at St Rita’s a success. _ ” 

 

Lance sucks in a breath. 

 

This guy. 

 

There’s a playlist of all Keith’s videos automatically loaded on the side of the page. No longer hesitant, Lance clicks to the previous episode. And then the one before that. By the time one episode ends, he’s impatient for the next to begin. 

 

There’s one episode where Keith visibly jumps, unexpectedly coming across a doll in an old nursery. “ _ Dolls creep me the fuck out,” _ Keith informs the camera sullenly, after he calms down, hand clenched in a fist at his side. Lance giggles, this guy. He can sleep in hundred year old morgues without batting an eye, but dolls are too much for him? 

 

He has a sense of humor that’s so dry and off beat it takes Lance a few videos to pick up on it. One episode, Keith set up camp in a graveyard and deadpans something about the “nightlife” that has Lance choking with laughter. 

 

It’s after three am when Lance finally reaches the beginning of Keith’s channel. The first videos are from at least a couple of years prior. Keith’s hair is shorter and he is definitely camera shy, awkwardly quiet and constantly checking the viewfinder. He doesn’t leave the red background in the earliest vids, but instead just talks through popular haunting sites, conspiracy theories. They aren’t as exciting as the more recent videos, but Lance watches them anyway, enjoying the light rasp of Keith’s voice and the way his eyes light up when one of the stories is particularly interesting. 

 

And that’s that. Every single video on Keith’s channel. He didn’t start with the intention of watching them all, but...

 

Lance grabs his phone, knowing full well Hunk won’t be awake to text him back. 

 

**To Hunk** : gonna text pidge  

**To Hunk:** if keith is still looking for a cameraman I’m his guy

 

* 

 

From the cracked leather of the barstools to the faded prints barely clinging on the walls, “The Blade” is a bit of a dive. Lance prefers bars with a more….friendly atmosphere. Ideally filled with cute girls-- or guys, college taught him he was  _ very _ open minded-- who are also friendly. The only other patron of this place looks like he could kill a man with his bare hands. And not in a good way. And  _ this _ is where Keith requested to meet up for the first time? 

 

Lance hunches between Hunk and Pidge. Admittedly Pidge doesn’t provide much in the way of coverage, but they’re feisty enough that anyone trying to cross them would deeply regret it. He wants another drink but one interaction with the bartender was traumatizing enough. “So,” he hisses under his breath to Hunk, “Do you think the bartender is more of an axe murderer or, like, the sensitive type, like Hannibal Lecter?” 

 

Hunk looks towards the bar. The guy is huge, his chiseled jaw set in a stone cold expression of disinterest. Not to mention the massive vertical scar running down the right side of his face. “Um, he might be really nice?” 

 

Their corner hightop is joined by a pair of dark colored eyes and a trademark scowl that Lance knows all too well, for never having met in person. Keith. He sets down his motorcycle helmet before perching on the chair next to Pidge. “Sorry I’m late,” he offers in greeting. 

 

“No prob man, we were just discussing how nice the guy working the bar is!” Lance grins, holding out his hand. “Name’s Lance, great to finally meet you.”

 

Keith ignores his hand and peeks over his shoulder to see who’s working. “Kolivan?” he wonders.

 

“Oh so you’re on a first name basis, that’s swell,” Lance sniffs, annoyed that Keith apparently doesn’t have the social aptitude necessary to respond to a handshake. 

 

Keith shifts in his seat, crossing his legs. “Yeah, I tend to remember people who beat the shit out of me.” 

 

Pidge looks up from their phone. “Oooooh, so this is  _ that _ bar. I wondered why were here.” 

 

“Wait, what?” Lance looks between them. “Uh, Pidgey, care to explain?” 

 

Shooting Lance a warning glare at the nickname modification, Pidge elaborates. “Keith broke into the apartment above the bar and the guy who owns the place was understandably miffed.” 

 

“And why, pray tell, would you do that?” Lance raises his eyebrows at Keith. 

 

“I wanted answers,” he says darkly. 

 

“He thinks this place is haunted,” Pidge translates. 

 

“I  _ know _ it’s haunted. I wanted to find out by what. Anyways, we worked it out.” Keith drums his fingers on the table, not elaborating any further.

Lance looks at his hands, then at his face, then back to his hands. Fingerless gloves? Really? Lance wants to make a dig at him for it, but combined with the whole “bad boy” thing he has going on-- black jeans, sinfully tight, heavy boots, and a predilection for the paranormal -- he kinda pulls them off. Not that Lance will ever let him know it. They’ve spent all of two minutes together and Lance can already tell the guy is a bit of a jerk. Still cute though. 

 

But Lance can’t  _ quite _ resist the jibe, so he comments airily, “You know Keith, you’re a lot shorter than I imagined from your videos.” 

 

Hunk and Pidge fall silent. Lance sits back in his chair, satisfied at the reaction, waiting for Keith’s response. 

 

Keith’s jaw works for a moment before he turns to Pidge. “Thanks for the help Pidge, but I don’t think this is going to happen. Talk to you later.” He moves to get down from their table. 

 

“Woah, woah, woah,” Lance holds up his hands in a truce. “Buddy, take it down a notch. I didn’t know you were going to be so intense.” 

 

Keith eyes him icily. “And I didn’t know you were going to be an idiot.” 

 

“That’s what you say to someone’s who’s offering to help you?!” 

 

“How could you help me? Look at you!” Keith waves a hand over Lance’s ensemble. 

 

He’s wearing his favorite pair of jeans, slim cut with the knees blown out, clean white kicks, and a long sleeve tee. Which may or may not say “IT’S LIT BRO” in block letters. His hair has approximately five products in it to achieve the perfect ‘messy’ look. A typical choice of clothes. What’s wrong with them? Lance glances towards his friends. 

 

Pidge, bless them, is wearing a shirt that they got for attending a science fair (their project came in first, winning the fair, but that’s beside the point) their freshman year of  _ high school _ . So, what, eight years ago? Nine? The shirt is ratty and also two sizes too large. It’s faded from the weird greenish color it originally was, but the lettering across the chest still reads: “GEEK: Four Letter Word, Six Figure Income,” which, in Pidge’s case, is not untrue. Lance couldn’t explain exactly what it is that Pidge does, but he knows they make bank doing it. Again, beside the point. 

 

Hunk, flawless though he is as a friend, is a fashion disaster. Cargo shorts. That’s all the explanation needed. 

 

In comparison, Lance’s look is practically instagram worthy. Dare he say, hot. He winks at Keith. “That must be a joke. No one can resist my rugged good looks.” 

 

“From what I’ve heard of your dating history, people resist them just fine.”  

 

Lance glares at Pidge, who snorts so loud even Kolivan spares them a glance. Hunk seems to be suppressing a laugh. Traitors. 

 

“At least I don’t have a mullet!” Lance retorts, triumphant. 

 

He doesn’t feel like he’s won though, when Keith mechanically runs a hand through his hair in response, and Lance catches a glimpse of a tattoo, a dark contrast against the milky pale inside of his bicep. As far as comebacks go, that’s a low blow. 

 

Mouth dry, Lance concedes before Keith can say another word, “Look. Pidge said you wanted another cameraman on the scene to really take your vids to the next level. Not only that, I can help with editing and all the other post production too. It’s a win-win.” 

 

“So what’s in it for you?” Keith crosses his arms, suspicious.

 

“Oh, you know…” Lance trails off, waving his hand in indication of some vague idea. 

 

“I really don’t.” 

 

Hunk pipes in, because Lance can always count on Hunk, “Lance went to school for this stuff. Some real world experience would be super helpful on his resume.” 

 

Keith narrows his eyes at this, still suspicious. 

 

“Ha!!” 

 

The three of them, the bare-hands killer, and Kolivan all jump at Pidge’s exclamation. They look up from their phone a moment later after registering the silence and shrug. “Just figured something out.” 

 

Lance makes a grab at their phone, “Pidgeeee, how many times have I told you, no international espionage at the table~” 

 

Hunk titters at this, possibly because they share the same stupid sense of humor, or, more probably, because, unlike Lance, he actually understands how Pidge makes a living. 

 

Pidge parries Lance’s long limbed attack and artfully knuckles him in the rib. “I have the secrets of the universe on this thing, Lance, keep your Axe-body-spray soaked hands away from it.” 

 

“I do not,” Lance squawks, “Hunk, shut up, that was  _ one time _ \--I do not even  _ own _ a can of Axe! Thank you very much!!” 

 

The conversation quickly devolves into good natured insult flinging between Pidge and Lance, and to a lesser extent, Hunk. As they get louder, Lance meets Keith’s glance over the table and shoots him a sheepish smile,  _ sorry we’re like this _ , while Pidge and Hunk reminisce, not so fondly, on Lance’s more heavily fragranced days. Keith breaks eye contact almost immediately, intent on inspecting a crack in the gloss of the tabletop, mouth pulled into an odd shape. Not quite a frown. 

 

“One video,” he decides. His voice is drowned out by Pidge’s heckling and Lance’s outraged response, and one eyebrow ticks up in irritation. Keith repeats himself, louder. 

 

“Huh?” Lance pauses, lowering his arms (having been raised in a futile attempt to get Pidge to smell him).  “Really?” 

 

Keith shrugs. 

 

“Oh man!” Lance bumps Hunk’s fist in victory. “You are not gonna regret that decision, my guy. Now that Lancey Lance is on the job, your videos are going to be ahhhmazing!!” He beams across the table at Keith. “Plus, we’re gonna have so much fun!!” 

 

* 

 

Why did he think this was going to be fun? Lance spends the forty-five minute drive grumbling to himself. Turns out, ghost hunting severely interferes with his typical eight hours of beauty sleep. It’s a random Wednesday night, just after midnight, and getting lost in the middle of nowhere is not what Lance wants to be doing. He checks his phone to make sure he copied the address Keith sent him into the gps correctly for the tenth time. The phone says he’s less than five minutes away, but all he sees around him are cornfields. This can’t be right. 

 

He and Keith had exchanged numbers before leaving The Blade, but Keith isn’t much of a talker. Ignoring Lance’s questions (and emojis), he’s texted Lance the address and a time to be there, and little else. So, Lance doesn’t really even know what his destination  _ is _ . Maybe he should have had the foresight to look it up?

 

All at once, a small town parts the cornfields. The tinny gps voice directs him past a few dimly lit bars, a no-name grocery store, through the two stoplights on main street, and stops abruptly here: a laundromat. 

 

It sits strangely far back from the road. Lance pulls into the deserted parking lot, checks to make sure the car doors are locked, and tugs his phone off the charger, sighing. He must be lost. He peers into the screen, debating whether he should call or text Keith. 

 

He texts him, half worried that this has just been an elaborate joke at his expense, and is waiting impatiently for his response, when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. He shifts in his seat, turns to look out the driver side window, and sees a face peering into the car. 

 

Lance screams, dropping his phone. 

 

Keith taps the window. “Lance. It’s me.” 

 

“Jesus Christ, Keith, you almost gave me a heart attack, what the hell.” Lance gets out the car, heart still beating wildly in his chest. His hands are shaking a bit and he bends down, looking under the driver’s seat, “One sec, asshole, you made me drop my phone…”

 

“You’re late. Leave it.” Keith takes off, across the parking lot toward the building. 

 

“What, like the ghosts are planning on going somewhere?” Lance calls after him. He fumbles his camera bag out of the trunk. “Keith?” 

 

The slam of the trunk closing echoes too loudly. It’s eerily quiet. The town seemed small, sleepy, but this building looks like it’s been abandoned for years. He catches up with Keith at the back door. 

 

“So what’s supposed to be scary about this dump? Does old soap scum leave you quaking in your Doc Martens, Keithy?” 

 

“Whatever you have to pretend to make yourself feel better, Lance.” Keith responds, pulling out what appears to be tools to pick the lock. Lance raises his eyebrows. Okay, so they’re not  _ technically _ supposed to be here. Good to know. 

 

“No really. What happened here?” Lance feels dread wash over him as the bolts turn and Keith pushes the door open. 

 

“You’d know if you weren’t twenty minutes late. I already filmed the intro to the location.” 

 

Lance huffs. “Well, excuse me. I didn’t know the nearest ghost was freaking an hour away!” 

 

Keith does not deign to answer him, but instead takes a quick look around the room with his flashlight, searching for a suitable background to start his vlog. 

 

“Can you get some decent shots of the exterior while I set up in here?” 

 

Lance turns around, dropping his gaze from the graffiti coloring the one large wall opposite the rows of washers and dryers. A handful of chairs are strewn about, ripped from their legs which remain bolted to the floor. The back corner has a door, cracked open to perhaps an office, but it’s too dark to see where it leads. Okay, this place is sufficiently creepy. Keith must have nerves of steel to spend the night alone at places like this. “W-well, if you think you’ll be alright in here by yourself, I can.”

 

Keith looks at him, unimpressed. “I think I’ll manage.” 

 

“Ohhhhhkay. Alright-y then.” Lance heads to the door, happy to exit after being in the laundromat for all of five minutes. “Be back in a jiff Keith, tell the ghoulies to wait until I get back before they get to spookin.” 

 

The building has such a presence, the video practically films itself. Lance is pleased with how the quick pan over the front entrance looks on camera. He preens, reviewing the initial shot. It looks even more abandoned-y than in person, if that’s possible. No cars pass by while he’s standing outside. No voices or noise from the buildings down the road, no animals even. The silence is ominous. He finishes quickly, eyes darting back to his car, as if to make sure it’s still there, before rejoining Keith inside. 

 

“So how do we do this?” he whispers to Keith, not sure if he’s started filming or not yet. 

 

“Sometimes just being in the location evokes activity from otherwise dormant spirits,” Keith explains into the camera. “I usually try to create a little more of a disturbance than just sitting around though.” His mouth quirks up into a half smile. Becoming serious again, he raises his eyes to the ceiling and asks, “Is there anyone here with with us tonight?” 

 

Lance marvels as Keith seems to….relax? Oddly enough. He’s having fun, at the very least. This guy. 

 

Keith continues to goad the empty room. “Dana? Are you here? Was it your idea to come here that night in October? Melissa? Was it the roommate you fought with earlier that day, according to your classmates, Laura? Will one of you come forward to tell us who murdered you here, in this room?”  

 

Lance slouches on his one of his elbows to lean back on a washing machine. College girls huh? He can work with that. His voice is smooth in the darkness. “Baby, you’re looking so good for me tonight, let me get you on camera for a little bit, huh?” 

 

Obviously there’s no response. Beyond Keith choking. 

 

“That was.” Keith shuts his mouth, regrouping. “That sounded like the sleaziest line ever….not an attempt to connect with metaphysical energy.” 

 

“I’ll show you metaphysical energy!” 

 

Without any warning beyond the telltale smirk that he can’t quite hide, Lance inhales. When he  exhales, it’s a moan, loud in the dark and as suggestive as he can make it. Keith’s shoulders immediately raise, nearly to his ears. He slowly turns his head toward Lance. 

 

Lance repeats the moan, drawing it out. He follows it with a lascivious whine and then breathily whispers into the mic, voice hitched: “Spook me harder, daddy.” 

 

Keith whirls around. He has Lance’s collar bunched in his fist before Lance even registers that he should try to dodge. Keith is just a smidge shorter than him, but surprisingly strong, based on the way he yanks Lance down to eye level. 

 

“You--”

 

Thunk thunk. Thunk. 

 

“Very funny. Lance.” 

 

Lance waves a hand frantically, trying to get him to be quiet, to convey that’s not him making the noise while at the same time straining to hear. Keith’s mouth snaps shut and his hand releases Lance’s shirt. He looks up Lance, expression unreadable. 

 

A minute passes, both of them holding their breaths. 

 

“I think it’s--” Lance begins. 

 

Thunk thunk. Thunk. 

 

“Oh fuck me, what the fuck, Keith.” Lance babbles as he moves closer to Keith’s side, pulse frantic in his ears, trying to stay mindful of the camera. “Keith what is that?” His voice sounds panicked and hollow in the darkness. 

 

Keith sucks in a breath. 

 

Thunk thunk. Thunk. 

 

A nervous laugh, nearly a sob, escapes Lance’s mouth. 

 

“It almost sounds like…” Keith pauses, waiting to hear if it repeats again. Silence. “It sounds like something heavy is spinning in one of the dryers.” Keith moves towards the wall of dryers. Most of them are gutted, missing doors, change slots dangling disemboweled from the machines. 

 

He peers through the grimy glass door into one of the few intact machines. “But that can’t be true. This place hasn’t had power for more than five years.”

 

THUNK THUNK. THUNK. 

 

Lance drops his flashlight at the near deafening noise that cuts through the darkness. 

 

“K-k-keith….” He  stutters out, crouched down to retrieve his flashlight from the linoleum.  Keith turns around, but Lance doesn’t see him; his eyes are glued to the ceiling. “If.” he swallows. “If there’s no electricity. Why are the ceiling fans on?” 

 

Keith crosses the length of the room, Lance following him with the camera, and flips the light switches on and off. Nothing happens. 

 

“If there’s something here with us, show us a sign.” Keith’s voice is steady and clear. “Are you the one who made that noise?” No response. Keith tries again, commanding. “Are you controlling the fans? Stop it.” 

 

Immediately, the three ceiling fans pick up speed, a rapid  _ thwip thwip thwip _ filling the room as the blades cut through the air, so fast that they threaten to break. 

 

“Oh my god,” Lance squeaks out from his place on the floor, between a pair of washing machines. He steadies the camera as best he can but his hands are shaking. “This place is really haunted and we’regoingtodieohmygooood.” 

 

Keith is thrilled with this development and tells his camera, “This entity, or entities, seems to be extremely responsive. I can only hope our equipment is picking up even more than we’re experiencing now.” 

 

He asks the spirit, “Is there anything you want to tell us? Why are you trapped in this building, even after death?” 

 

“Stop trying to piss it off, Keith,” Lance hisses. He calls out, “Uh, it’s cool if you wanna st-stay here long term, b-buddy, we’re gonna be leaving soon anyways. No worries.” 

 

“Maybe it’s not the girls who are here,” Keith suggests boldly. “Maybe it’s the psychopath who slaughtered them, all those years ago.” 

 

Lance eeps out a noise, eyes searching wildly for any movement. The fans above have not slowed.

 

Keith continues, “Is it you that’s here, Alec McGregor?” 

 

Forgetting the situation for a moment, Lance scoffs, “Wait was that his name for real? That’s so lame, sounds like the guy--” 

 

“You would know all of this if you hadn’t missed the intro!” Keith interrupts, impatient.

 

“I’m just saying, wasn’t Mr. McGregor the guy from the--” 

 

The office door in the back corner slams shut with such force that the window inside the door rattles. 

 

“HOLY SHIT!” Lance shouts. “Did you see that?! Did you see that?!” He points wildly to the door. 

 

“Tell me you got that.” Keith grins down at Lance on the floor. 

 

“Oh, I got it alright, whatever it was.” 

 

The ceiling fans above them slow to a stop. 

 

Keith strides into the office, opening the door, as he continues to address the proposed murderer. Nothing. 

 

Lance eventually follows him into the room, nervous to be close to the door, nervous to be far from Keith. 

 

The room is quiet. Nothing strange about the desk, the filing cabinet. Keith tries the lights again, but still no electricity, it seems. They stand in the room together for a moment, breath evening. 

 

When he breaks the silence, Keith’s voice sounds a bit hoarse. “Anything you want to add in closing?”

 

Lance spins the camera toward himself, flashing a smile and shooting a lazy finger gun. “Don’t forget to like, comment, and subscribe!” 

 

***

 

 

 


	2. Miss My Mermaid Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When their first collaboration video goes well, but Keith doesn't answer Lance's texts, what happens next? Featuring yoga dates, mermaids, and haunted (?) movie theaters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to every single person that read the first chapter and left a comment or kudos or anything, it gave me the motivation to keep writing and I appreciate it a lot. hope you like the continuation chapter!

 

***

 

Lance likes to think he’s a popular guy. When he was in school, he knew pretty much everyone on campus, by face if not by name. He went to his fair share of parties, hung out, dated around, all that jazz. Now graduated, he’s kept in touch with a few people more frequently than others, but he still has plenty of friends. He’s active on social media--facebook, twitter, snapchat, instagram-- just like anybody else. But. He’s never woken up to notifications like this. 

 

People he hasn’t talked to since  _ grade school _ are sending him fb messages. An ex that broke his heart spectacularly halfway through sophomore year just liked his latest post on insta. Twenty-eight new followers on snapchat. He has a missed call from his mom (possibly unrelated). 

 

The heck? 

 

**To Hunk:** dude my phone is wildin rn 

**From Hunk:** check the video keith posted last night man

**From Hunk:** you’re practically internet famous 

 

Lance unplugs his phone from the charger and rolls over, thumbing to youtube, Keith’s channel. 

He looks at the video. 49,084 views. No. In less than twelve hours?! 

 

This can’t be real. 50k views….he can’t even imagine it. That’s--he scrolls down through the other videos on Keith’s channel-- that’s nearly twice as many views as his most popular episode! 

 

Lance starts the video, sitting up in bed. “ _ Welcome back to my channel _ .” Keith frowns ever so slightly as he waits for the camera to autofocus. He’s wearing a beanie--Lance didn’t realize it was colored in the dark, but on film he can tell it’s a deep maroon. It looks like it was made for him to wear it, the red rich against his black hair. 

 

Keith seems nervous, eyes searching behind the camera, as he introduces the location. Lance realizes that he was probably waiting for Lance to arrive, maybe doubting that he would show up at all, and feels a twinge of guilt for being so late that night. 

 

_ “This building behind me used to be Quik Coin Laundry, a typical laundromat just a block off main street in the tiny town of Hardinville.” _ He pauses. “ _ Until it became the crime scene for the most gruesome murder this town has ever experienced.” _ Keith goes into detail about the four young women who were stabbed to death. The video cuts to the footage Lance shot of the exterior, and photos Keith inserted of the crime scene. It looks impressive, practically professional, but Lance barely notices, he’s so horrified by the story. The primary suspect, McGregor, reportedly stabbed the four roommates on a Wednesday night, at approximately 1:50 in the morning. Exactly the time they had been there. 

 

Despite the warm temperature in his room and the blanket bunched around his waist, Lance shivers. The psychopath shoved the girls’ bodies in the dryers, Keith says, and set them to a double cycle. By the time their bodies were found, they were burned beyond recognition and a state led forensics team was needed to identify the girls. Alec McGregor was never convicted of the crime, but he returned some years later, and hung himself in the very same room. 

 

Lance feels sick. In retrospect, he’s glad he missed the intro. 

 

They go inside, and although Lance knows what’s going to happen, he feels the same sense of dread that he felt when he was standing there with Keith watching him open the door in person. Keith added a timestamp to the bottom corner of the footage, and when the first “thunk” coincides with the alleged time of the murder, Lance’s hand covers his mouth. 

 

He’s on edge through the rest of the episode, watching in rapt attention until the final slam of the door. He was there and this is still terrifying; Keith certainly succeeded in capturing the atmosphere of the place. Keith ends the episode with a concluding statement in front of his red backdrop as is his routine. But he seems less composed than usual; his beanie’s gone, leaving his hair mussed, and he seems breathless, excited.  “ _ That was--that was more than I was expecting.” _

 

Lance lays back against his headboard, heart thrumming rapidly in his chest. He can’t ascribe it solely to the paranormal, however, not when Keith ends the video with such solemn eyes looking right into the lens, right at Lance, then smiles shyly down as he leans forward to switch off the camera,  _ “See you next time _ .” 

 

In the video description, there’s a little blurb:  _ thanks to my friend Lance who helped me shoot some of the video footage used in this episode _ , and a link to Lance’s info. Lance bites his lip to keep the grin off his face. 

 

**To Pidge** : I’m internet famous 

**To Pidge** : I’m gonna be a meme, Pidgey 

**To Pidge** : hey demons, it’s me, ya Lance 

**To Pidge** : (…)

**From Pidge:** my phone starts blowing up and before I even check it, I know it’s Lance, back on his bullshit 

**To Pidge** : rude 

**From Pidge** : you have a long way to go before you reach meme status my friend 

**From Pidge:** I’m glad the first video went well. I knew you guys would get along 

**To Pidge** : ””””””get along””””””””

**To Pidge:** idk if almost getting murdered by a ghost together counts as “getting along” but okay 

**From Pidge** : maybe not for most people but for keith? Definitely counts 

**To Pidge** : so you think he would let me work on more videos with him 

**To Pidge** : because I really want to 

**To Pidge** : Pidge, I really really want to 

 

Lance rolls himself out of bed, stretches, goes to the bathroom, and snags his phone again as he makes his way into the kitchen. He calls his mom back, smiling as soon as he hears her voice on the phone. He cradles the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he makes coffee and listens to the background noise of his childhood home. 

 

He’s the youngest of five, but there’s still kids in the house; his mother usually watches his niece and two nephews while their parents are at work. She scolds them, tells them she’s on the phone, “ _ Robbie,  _ _ no hay fútbol en la casa, _ ” before asking him how he’s doing, has he eaten, why did it take him so long to return her phone call?

 

She interrupts his answer, she can’t find the remote to turn the television off and shouts down the hall at the kids to help her look. It’s so different from the quiet of Lance’s one bedroom apartment. He feels the familiar tug of homesickness in his chest. Family is just a phone call away, but it’s not the same as being there. “Mama, did you see my video? It got really popular, someone shared it on facebook….maybe you already saw it?” 

 

She hasn’t seen it, she says she’ll watch it later, although isn’t Lance done with school now, why is he still making videos, when is he going to come home? Lance cringes, pouring coffee into his favorite mug, the blue one with stars on it, as he tries to explain it wasn’t for school or work. His apartment has a little patio balcony and he brings his coffee outside with him, enjoying the warm summer air on his skin as they talk. His mom explains the reason for her call: his oldest sister, Elle, was recently promoted. Always fashionable, she’s been manager of a high end clothing store for about a year, but now the chain promoted her to district manager, in charge of seven stores. 

 

“I’ll text her congratulations,” Lance promises, before ending the call. It sounds like his niece made the next door neighbor boy cry again, and his mother has to go check to make sure there are no actual injuries. 

 

True to his word, he texts his sister and catches up with her for a bit while eating breakfast and scrolling through his out of control feeds. 

 

Heart beating irrationally quickly, he messages Keith before getting in the shower to get ready for his shift at work. 

 

**To Keith** : the new vid is mad successful! No doubt due to yours truly 

**To Keith** : let me know when the next haunt is, I’m ready 

 

He gets out of the shower and there’s no reply from Keith. Just: 

 

[read: 9:48 am] 

 

Sighing, Lance finishes getting ready for work. 

 

* 

 

More than a week passes. The video initial popularity levels off at about 55k views, more than double Keith’s previous most popular episode. He gains loads more subscribers, the video gets passed around facebook, and a local news station plays a clip of it. With the good comes bad, nasty comments, accusations that the footage was staged-- all of this Lance hears about secondhand. He texts Keith one more time, but again, doesn’t get a reply. 

 

He complains about this to Hunk, slumped against his side while they play video games and eat numerous bowls of Hunk’s peerless guacamole. He complains to Pidge as he drags them to their longstanding weekly yoga date. (Pidge hates yoga, and also that Lance always refers to their class as a date, but Lance was relentless in getting them to join after they started having back problems due to poor posture in front of their computer. They’ll never admit to Lance that the yoga helps). Pidge informs him, over their post-class milkshakes (balance in everything is key, after all), that Keith probably doesn’t mean anything by it. 

 

“He’s left me on read for over a week, Pidge,” Lance sucks at his strawberry milkshake aggressively. “That’s war.” 

 

Pidge shakes their head. “Keith’s a loner. He wanted his channel to grow, but the video blowing up like it did is probably overwhelming to him.” They pass a napkin over to Lance, as he’s managed to drip milkshake down the front of his ‘nah imma stay (in bed)’ tank top. “Last year I thought he was mad at me because I didn’t hear from him for four weeks, but it turns out he just was on a roadtrip to find mothman or some shit and forgot to bring his phone charger.” 

 

Lance gapes at them. “You’re joking.” 

 

Pidge finishes off the rest of their peanut butter shake with relish. “He’s in his own head way too much, just like you.” 

 

“Don’t psychoanalyze me, Pidge, I’m not one of your mumbo-jumbo thought experiments. No alien probes in this brain.” Lance flutters his fingers around his temples to emphasize his point which earns him a roll of eyes and a poorly concealed chuckle. Not for the first time, Lance thinks that Pidge is too intuitive for their own good. 

 

*

 

“...and so this is a jellyfish, and this is starfish, and then this is Nemo, and this is his dad, and then this is a SHARK.” Little fingers hover over construction paper blobs, explaining the scene to Lance. 

 

“Ohhhh, sharks are my favorite.” Lance hastily moves the glitter paint away from the edge of the table, but still in reach. The arts and craft store at which he works hosts classes: knitting, quilting, cake decorating, etc. But--though Lance has been known to sit in on a knitting class or two--his favorite classes are the ones for the kids. This one is once monthly, and for the youngest group, ages 4-6. Since it’s June, and summer is just beginning, the group has been tasked with creating an underwater scene. 

 

“What’s in your picture, Joey?” Most of the kids are regulars, but this is Joey’s first time in the class and he’s been quiet. He hasn’t used any of the supplies except for the googly eyes, which he is resolutely gluing over every inch of his paper. 

 

“Fish,” he says. 

 

A true visionary. Well, as long as the kid is happy…

 

“I’m drawing a mermaid!!” Heather bounces up and down in her seat, a red crayon in one hand and a blue in the other. 

 

“She’s beautiful!” Lance proclaims, eyeing the scribbles. 

 

“Mermaids aren’t real and they shouldn’t be in the picture, Heather.” Isabella glues little bits of foam to the bottom half of her page. Seaweed maybe? What a killjoy. 

 

“Au contraire, mon Bella,” Lance squats between the two girls. “I’ve met a mermaid before.” Ten pairs of eyes look up from the table to stare at him. Lance is known to be a bit of a ham, and the kids like his stories almost as much as the glow-in-the-dark paint. Almost. 

 

He grabs a pipe cleaner to make a sword and begins a colorful swashbuckling tale in which he single handedly saves an underwater city from a giant sea monster. “And then,” he finishes the story with a wave of his hand and a bow, “the beautiful mermaid thanked me with a kiss, riiiiiiiiight here.” He sticks a sticker on his cheek. The kids giggle. 

 

“Lance you got a sticker on you!” Xavier stands up in his chair, coming dangerously close to falling. 

 

“Woah buddy, you gotta stay in your seat!!” Lance helps him sit back down, arranging the dixie cups filled with paint around his picture. 

 

Isabella yanks her paper away from the commotion, and, in the process, knocks over a quart of blue paint. It spills across the plastic table cloth, over her arms and hands, and into the lap of her dress. She begins to cry. 

 

“Shhh, shhh, it’s okay, Isabella,” Lance grabs some paper towels and mops up the spill. “No harm done, we’ll get you all cleaned up.” 

 

“My dress,” she wails, attaching herself around Lance’s neck. 

 

“It’s so pretty and this paint is gonna wash right out of it,” Lance assures her, scooping her up to get the wipes from the counter. Moving is proving difficult however, as Xavier has attached himself to Lance’s knees and looks dangerously close to crying himself.  

 

“Let go for a minute, Xavier, I’ll be right back, promise,” Lance carefully extricates himself from skinny little arms. 

 

“Somebody’s at the do~or!” Heather singsongs. 

 

“Maureen, good timing,” Lance turns around, expecting to see his coworker, Maureen. 

 

Not. Not...Keith. Keith? 

 

He looks like he’s been caught red handed, eyes wide underneath the mess of his fringe, hands clenched into nervous fists at his sides. 

 

“Uhhh.” Lance states intelligently. 

 

“I was just--They said you were in the back, I--” Keith looks around helplessly. “I’ll go.” 

 

Xavier starts to cry. “M-my picture.” Blue paint splattered over his drawing. Isabella looks down at him from Lance’s arms with watery eyes, and sniffles, threatening to start back up. 

 

“Keith, grab me the wipes from the counter, would ya?” Lance squats down to eye level with Xavier, pulling him into a hug with the arm not clutching Bella. “The spill was an accident, right?” The little boy nods. Bella buries her face in Lance’s neck. “And it’s okay because we still have time,” he eyes the clock on the wall, “We still have fifteen more minutes before clean-up and that’s  _ plenty _ of time to make a masterpiece.” 

 

Keith hands Lance the plastic container of wipes. Lance sits Bella and Xavier back in their chairs and pulls up an extra one for Keith, motioning for him to sit down. Keith looks at him like he’s crazy. “Xavier, I bet Keith will help you decide on a new animal to draw if you ask him nicely.” He begins dragging Bella’s small hands through the baby wipes, cleaning her off gently. “This paint is a special Lance recipe,” he tells her seriously, “it washes off--no problem.” 

 

By the time their parents come to retrieve them, the kids are happy again, including Xavier with his new picture of a family of hippos. Isabella bounds up to her father, chattering to him about mermaids, the spot of blue paint on her dress more or less forgotten. 

 

Lance begins cleaning up the supplies, pom poms and googly eyes back in their containers, paint capped for another day. “Uh, Keith? You can get up now.” 

 

Keith scrambles up from the tiny chair, a comical sight. He moves to the edge of the room and crosses his arms. 

 

Lance laughs, “You know your ‘hardcore’ image is kinda ruined, now that I’ve seen you color hippos with five year olds.” 

 

“And your douche-y ‘cool guy’ front is definitely ruined, now that I’ve heard you tell stories about mermaids.” 

 

“You! How long were you--!?” Lance turns on Keith, pointing a finger accusingly. “You can’t prove anything.” 

 

Keith points to his cheek. “The ‘kiss’ says it all.” 

 

Lance peels the sticker off his face, glowering. He moves to the sink, washing his hands, running a paper towel over his face and neck to get the blue paint off. Isabella got it everywhere. “This is definitely going to break me out,” Lance grumbles. Resigned, he takes off the apron with the store’s logo across the chest, and hangs it back on the hook by the door. That’s as good as it’s gonna get before he can go home and wash up properly. 

 

“It’s in your hair too,” Keith says. 

 

“Son of a biscuit.” Lance pulls out his phone and uses the front camera as a mirror to inspect his hair. Keith raises an eyebrow at him. “Hey, I can’t swear at work, kids are here.” 

 

“No, it’s just--” Keith motions to his hair, exasperated. “Here, let me.” He moves towards Lance with a paper towel. Before Lance can say anything else, Keith is close to his face, brows knit in concentration as he combs the paint from Lance’s bangs with his fingers. At this distance, Lance can see the individual eyelashes framing his dark eyes. He inhales, breath shallow, and he can smell cigarette smoke lingering on Keith’s clothes. 

 

“Didn’t know you smoked,” Lance murmurs, because he’s nervous and has no filter and his pulse is loud in his ears. 

 

Keith freezes, his gaze lowering to Lance’s face. He looks into Lance’s eyes for a beat too long, before stepping away, hands shoved in his pockets. “It’s good now,” he says, with a jerk of his head indicating Lance’s hair, after they separate. 

 

“Thanks,” Lance doesn’t bother to confirm with a mirror. He shifts nervously on his feet, resisting the urge to run his hands through his hair.  Keith is suddenly very interested in the class schedule scrawled on a whiteboard near the door. The drone of the store’s crackly overhead music is interrupted as Maureen pages for help at the registers.  

 

“You, uh,” Lance begins, but stops as Keith starts talking at the same time: 

 

“I was--” 

 

They both fall silent again. 

 

Lance coughs. “So you’re a little early…”

 

Keith looks at him, questioning. 

 

“I assume you’re here for the friendship bracelet making class we have scheduled at one-thirty,” 

 

Keith’s mouth pulls into the faintest of frowns, confused, 

 

“I mean, because, considering you’ve ignored my texts for the last week, I know you’re not here to see me,” Lance continues, casual, as he finishes tidying up the room. 

 

“I didn’t--well, uh,”

 

Lance puts him out of his misery; under the fluorescent lights of the craft store, next to the bulletin board covered in pictures of kids holding up their handiworks, Keith is clearly out of his element. “Relax, Keith, it was a joke.” He shoots him a grin to show he’s not actually angry. “What’s up?”

 

Relief crosses over Keith’s features. “Then,” Keith’s tone is  _ almost _ shy, “you wanna come to the movies with me?” 

 

*

 

“You know, this isn’t  _ exactly _ what I was picturing.” Lance scratches the back of his head, not entirely surprised. 

 

“Yeah?” Keith adjusts the settings on his new thermal imaging camera. He’s been saving up the money from his videos for some time, and the popularity of his latest vid finally gave him the cash to splurge on a new toy. He’s being very precious with it, Lance notices, cradling it in his hands with utmost care. “It doesn’t have the bloody history that the laundromat had, but I think it’s still creepy enough for a video.” 

 

“No, I meant…” Lance trails off, feeling lame. Oh well. 

 

They’re at a movie theater alright. But they won’t be seeing any summer blockbusters tonight. By the looks of it, this place has been out of comission for years. Plywood covers the doors, paint faded and peeling off the exterior. Lance shades his eyes with a hand, surveying the rest of the strip mall as the sun hangs low in the sky. The movie theater’s parking lot, spotted with plants growing through the cracked cement, is huge. On the other side of that lies a tiny, independent grocery store, not successful enough to stay in business much longer by the looks of it. A cruddy sports bar sit farther off; the stores between the two are colored with large “For Rent” signs in the windows.  

 

“I’m going to start filming the intro.” Keith says. Lance isn’t sure if that’s an invitation to get in frame, or a subtle way to tell him to shut up. He opts for the latter, interested to see Keith talking to the camera from this side of things. 

 

Keith holds the camera at arm’s length, recording. “Welcome back to my channel. Tonight we’re spending the night here, a theater that’s seen better days.” His eyes flick to Lance. “I’ll do most of the history in a voiceover later.” 

 

Lance nods. 

 

“I don’t know if this place is haunted. I don’t know what we’ll encounter tonight, if anything, but I’m excited to find out.” Keith grins into the camera and Lance is struck by how much softer it is in real life. Keith fiddles with the viewfinder, making sure he’s in focus. Lance wants to see him smile, really smile, without a camera between them at all. 

 

“But first,” Keith continues, “We have to find our way inside. After the building was condemned three years ago, squatters took over. Eventually the doors were boarded up like you see now, leaving the building truly abandoned. Luckily, I came prepared, so I don’t think I’ll have too much trouble.” Keith fishes a crowbar out of his bag and holds it up. 

 

“Keith!” Lance squawks. 

 

“What?” Keith asks innocently. 

 

Introductions complete, they make their way inside. Keith chooses a door at the side, and in one swift, practiced motion, pries the wood away, revealing the dark interior of the movie theater’s lobby. The feeling of Keith’s arms as he yanked Lance down in the laundromat crosses his mind. Again, Keith is stronger than he appears. Lance swallows. “Okay so you’ve definitely done  _ that _ before,” he mutters. 

 

“Maybe once or twice,” Keith allows, stepping over the threshold. 

 

A sliver of light shines into the building from the entrance they’ve made, dust hanging thick in the air. There’s broken glass coating the floor, combined with bits of drywall and trash to form a carpet of filth over everything. Lance wrinkles his nose. “If I were a ghost, I would haunt somewhere better than this,” he informs Keith. “This place is a dump.” 

 

Keith surveys the room with his camera, flashlight in hand. “Be careful.” 

 

Lance treads cautiously, a few steps behind Keith. There’s definitely something unsettling about this, the way everything looks familiar, yet wrong. The glass cases that once housed candies are edged with mold from the condensation and humidity of the room. “Sorry Keith,” Lance says, peeking behind the counter, “looks like no nachos with tonight’s show.” 

 

Keith rolls his eyes at him. 

 

Lance pans over the the room with his camera, trying to envision how it will look creepiest on film. He’s about to say something else, but Keith holds up his hand. “Do you hear that?” 

 

They stand stock still, holding their breath together. Lance darts back and forth with his flashlight over the walls. The halls on either side of the lobby, leading to the theater rooms, seem unnaturally dark. He heaves a dramatic exhale. “I don’t hear anything.” 

 

“Maybe it was rats or something.” Keith shrugs. 

 

Lance squeaks. “I think I’d rather it be ghosts than rats, honestly.” 

 

Keith begins a monologue describing the room they’re in as he heads into one of the bathrooms. Lance follows close behind, side stepping garbage as best he can while still paying attention to the camera. The bathroom looks like something out of a horror movie. Half the stalls are ripped up; mirrors hang fragmented over what remains of the sinks. Foul graffiti covers the tiles, the letters bleeding out of form as they dried. 

 

Keith’s voice stops abruptly. Lance can tell by the look on his face, barely illuminated with their two flashlights, that he heard something again. He clamps his jaw shut, straining to hear. 

 

He hears it. A scratching noise. 

 

It’s soft at first, like it’s hesitant, but then it becomes unmistakable, the acoustics in the bathroom lending it strength. It sounds like nails, like a human hand, scratching at the wall. 

 

“What the fuck,” Lance whines, his shaking hands making the beam of his flashlight flutter over the walls. “Keith, what is that, what the hell is that?” 

 

Keith shakes his head. “I don’t know, but I hope our cameras are picking it up.” He looks to the door. “Sounds like it’s coming from out here.” He leads them back out into the hall, looking around. Nothing. He looks at Lance. “Okay. I’ll go in one theater, and you go into that one across the hall. We can see if either of us hears it more clearly.”

 

“With all due respect, fuck that.” Lance moves even closer to Keith. “New rule: we’re sticking together.” 

 

“It would be more efficient--”

 

“Yeah, and I efficiently run into squatters slash probable murderers slash rats slash ghosts  _ all by myself _ , Mr. ‘I Came Armed With A Crowbar And I Know How To Use It.’”

 

“But--” 

 

“No buts, we’re sticking together.” Lance pokes Keith in the chest to put an end to that argument. Keith looks mildly annoyed, but begins walking, apparently resigned. Lance falls into step beside him as they make their way down the hall. 

 

With every step, the hall seems to grow darker. The dirty carpet eats up the sound of their footsteps, leaving an ominous silence silence hanging between them as suffocating as the stuffy air. Were it not for the second beam of light next to his, it would be easy for Lance to imagine himself alone, perhaps not even able to discern if he is awake, or caught in some kind of nightmare. Despite the stolid air, he shivers, and moves close enough to Keith to feel the brush of his arm against his as they walk in tandem. 

 

They reach the end of the hall. Keith shines his flashlight over the unilluminated exit sign and breaks the silence, voice hushed. “Time to test out the new thermal cam.” He turns on the device and adjusts the settings, panning over the expanse of the corridor they’ve just walked. 

 

Lance leans into Keith, watching over his shoulder the blurs of red and purple on the small screen in Keith’s hands. Boring. There’s not much to see--Keith’s viewers will want a show. 

 

With a little huff but no further ado, Lance takes a few steps and lurches forward. He wobbles for a moment, his long legs scissoring the air, but eventually gets his balance. 

 

“W-what are you doing?” Keith sputters. 

 

“Handstand.” Lance explains, as smooth as he can manage. It’s a little hard to talk with all the blood rushing to his head and his shirt pooled around his face. 

 

“I can see that, Lance. But why??” 

 

Lance turns on his hands, tries walking a few steps, legs waving precariously. “You’re gonna have a voiceover explaining the thermo-whatever right? Why not have good footage to go with it?” Talking is too much strain, and he threatens to collapse after a few steps, abs burning from the effort. He manages to save face in the end, dropping back on his feet with a little hop to regain his footing. Whew. He fans himself, sighing. “I’m a man of many talents, Keith. You may as well take advantage of that.” 

 

“You are so…”

 

“Charming? Devilishly handsome? Stunningly beautiful?” Even though Keith probably can’t see him, Lance tucks his hands under his chin and and bats his eyes becomingly. 

 

“Moronic.” 

 

Lance stretches tall, pirouetting for the camera. “Sounds like somebody’s jeal--” 

 

Lance halts mid-spin. The scratching noise. He can tell by the look on Keith’s face, pale in the weak light of his flashlight, that he heard it too. It sounds closer than ever-- in the theater room closest to to them. Keith catches Lance’s shirt sleeve in a quick tug to pull him inside. 

 

If it was dark in the hallway, it’s pitch black in the theater. 

 

In the daylight, the room would probably seem laughably small, but now it seems like the rows of chairs go on forever. Lance feels the urge to duck down low, like something unseen is watching him. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Keith skirts the perimeter of the room, eyes focused on the screen. Nothing. “Whatever it is making that noise, this camera isn’t--” he stops abruptly. “Lance.” he breathes. 

 

“Hmm?” Lance follows Keith’s gaze up to the projector room. His flashlight glints off the lens still suspended in the window, but he sees nothing. “What is it Keith?” 

 

Keith motions for him to come look at the camera. 

 

“I’ll play it back.” Keith’s voice is barely above a whisper. Lance rests his hand on Keith’s shoulder, squinting down at the bright screen in the dark. “Just….wait for it….there.”

 

The spot of orange that appears on the screen is vaguely human shaped, looks down on them from the projector room, then darts out of view. A low moan escapes Lance’s mouth. “Oh hell no. Oh no. Oh nooo.” 

 

Keith grins at him. A perfect, unmistakable excitement written over his features. He pats Lance’s hand, still resting on his shoulder. “C’mon, we have to get up there!” 

 

Lance follows, heart drumming in his throat, adrenaline from fear indecipherable from the catch of his breath caused by Keith’s smile directed at him, their faces so close. He follows Keith’s quick pace down the hall, up the steps, into the projector room, thinking all the while about that grin, the way it colors his eyes with something gorgeous and unfiltered, the little dimple that forms near the edge of his mouth.

The projectors for all the theaters are housed in one long room. It’s trashed, like the rest of the building, but there are a few stray storage cabinets, random office chairs. Lance opens the cabinets with false-gusto, watching Keith out of the corner of his eye. Keith is hovering around the edges of the room, peering out of the projector windows into the theaters one-by-one with his thermal camera. Lance smiles to himself at Keith’s abrupt and uninhibited enthusiasm. He’s like a kid on Christmas morning, now that he caught that footage. 

 

Compared to the creepy theater and terrifying bathroom, the projector room is surprisingly mundane. Lance plops down in one of the chairs, pointedly ignoring the puff of dust that the chair exudes. He shines the flashlight over the ceiling. Most of the tiles have fallen down, the light flicks over the bare bones of the building. Lance yawns. 

 

“I think this is a perfect place to set up for the night.” Keith decides. He pulls off his backpack and positions a camera looking down into one of the theaters and directs Lance to do the same. The thermal camera he keeps over the length of the projector room. 

 

They set up and Keith poses some of the standard questions to the darkness. Nothing responds. Lance finds his eyelids growing heavy. He slumps back further in the chair. 

 

*

 

“Lance.” 

 

Lance shifts. The movement causes a sharp stab of pain in his neck. “Ughhhh.” He gingerly turns his head, eyes still closed. 

 

“Lance!” 

 

“Whatsamatter,” Lance slurs, slowly pulling the tension back into his limbs. He must have dozed off. “Are ghosts here now?” 

 

He finally manages to open his eyes and is met with an expression of bemusement looking down at him. “Not exactly.” Keith turns, packing his cameras away, apparently finished filming. “I was just thinking, you hungry?” 

 

Lance stretches, looking at his phone to check the time. “Yeah, but. Where are we going to get a decent meal at quarter ‘till four?” 

 

“I know a place.” Keith grabs his bag and heads for the door, shrugging for Lance to join him. 

***

 


	3. The Finest Jam Money Can Buy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lance admires seventies style digs, almost gets eaten by wolves, and waxes poetic about breakfast foods. Oh, and he flirts. With Keith. A Lot.

 

***

 

‘LOTTY’S HASTY TASTY’ the sign reads, in skinny letters fixed above the door. The small building sits catty-corner to the city street, with a worn out parking lot flanking either side, making it easy to miss. And Keith drives fast, his motorcycle readily lost around corners or between lights while Lance trails him in the car. It’s lucky Lance doesn’t drive right past the unassuming restaurant. 

 

The morning horizon is just barely brightening the sky, but despite the early hour, there’s still a couple of cars at the edge of the lot. Lance parks away from these, close enough to the door to see Keith flick the ash off of a cigarette as he pulls in. He’s leaning against his bike, but stands up straight as Lance gets out of the car, breathing out the last drag of smoke. 

 

“Ready?” Keith asks him in greeting, already heading for the door. 

 

“Yeah, I’m staaaarving,” Lance exaggerates, stretching his arms above his head. Mental note: sleeping in old office chairs in haunted movie theaters does  _ nothing _ for one’s back. 

 

The interior of the restaurant is much more cozy than the humble outside would suggest. The ceiling is low enough that Lance could probably touch it if he got it into his mind to try. Orange and yellow Tiffany style lamps, straight out of the seventies, hang in a line down the center. The tables and dividers are a simple, dark wood, which would be drab if they weren’t so distinctly weathered, the setting for many meals over many years. There’s a front counter that opens to the kitchen, a few well worn menus stacked on the corner. Keith bypasses these and heads for one of the booths lining the restaurant’s perimeter. 

 

Lance slides into the seat across from Keith, the brown leather of the booth faded and comfortable. “This place is great,” he whispers at Keith, plainly looking around, taking it all in. 

 

“You haven’t even tasted the food yet,” Keith says, tone reproachful, a smile creeping across his lips. 

 

“Morning, boys,” A waitress turns the cups right side up in their saucers and fills each one with coffee. Her mascara is clumpy and her apron is stained, but her expression is genuine and warm. 

 

“Morning, Rachel,” Keith replies, reaching for the creamer she sets down beside him. 

 

“You want your usual, honey?” Rachel leaves the carafe on a coaster between them. Keith confirms and she turns to Lance. “How about you, sweetie? Need a menu?” 

 

Lance directs his most winning smile at her. “Nah, I’ll just have the same thing as him.” Rachel nods and leaves to report the order to the kitchen. 

 

Keith pours a generous amount of cream into his mug and follows it with a hefty dump of the sugar canister at the side of the table. 

 

“Wow, want some coffee to go with that sugar,  _ honey _ ?” Lance drawls, sipping on his own cup, black. 

 

Keith makes an unimpressed face at him in response and pours more sugar into his cup, holding eye contact all the while. Lance pretends to gag. Keith lifts an eyebrow and daintily stirs his cup. Lance wrinkles his nose. 

 

Rachel returns with a jar of blueberry preserves and a sticky looking pitcher of syrup. “Pancakes will be out soon.” She leans over and stage whispers to Keith. “Lotty wants to know if this is the boy from the laundromat video.” 

 

“Oh ho ho, how my popularity has spread,” Lance preens. “I told you Keith, I told you!” 

 

“He’s bad enough as is, don’t make it any worse.” Keith grabs some napkins out of the dispenser, grumbling. 

 

“Honey, I just think it’s nice you’re in the company of the living for once.” Rachel smiles. 

 

“Oh wow Keith, they really know you here.” Lance snickers into his cup.  

 

Keith grunts noncommittally, and Rachel laughs. “Don’t let Keith fool you, sweetie, he’s as much of a regular as Anderson over there.” She waves to a flannel clad older gentleman in the corner who is  working his way through a plate of waffles and at least three newspapers, by the looks of it. She looks fondly at Keith, “We see this bright shining face at least three times a week.” 

 

Lotty himself, a large, no-nonsense looking man, brings out their food, multiple plates on each arm. “This  _ is _ the boy from the laundromat, I knew it!” 

 

“He’s too young for you, Lotty,” Anderson calls over, without looking up. 

 

Lance digs into his eggs, fluffy and scrambled and perfect. He surveys the toast and pancakes and bacon that’s also been placed before him.  _ This is actually heaven _ .  “Age is just a social construct,” he informs Lotty gravely. 

 

Lotty booms with laughter, way more than Lance’s goofy joke actually warrants. “Keith, keep him around.” 

 

Keith nods, too busy drowning his pancakes in blueberry preserves and syrup to argue. 

 

“Maybe if you’re with someone sensible like this, you’ll stop riding around on that death trap all the time.” Lotty starts. 

 

“Here he goes,” Rachel rolls her eyes. She leans over and whispers to Lance conspiratorially. “Implying that Lotty has never been on the back of a motorcycle.” She taps Lotty’s arm. “Let the boys eat, you can lecture Keith next time.” 

 

Keith dips two slices of bacon into the pool of syrup he’s created on his plate. “Thanks, Rachel.” 

 

She winks at him, “Oh honey, you owe me. I’m gonna get  _ all _ the details.” 

 

Keith glowers into his mug. “There’s no details to get.” 

 

Even by Lance’s high, Hunk-related standards, the food is excellent. Far better than breakfast at four thirty-five in the morning has any right to be. Keith tucks into his pancakes with gusto. Lance matches his enthusiasm with little effort. 

 

“How did you even find this place?” Lance gets out between bites. 

 

Keith chews thoughtfully, takes a swig of coffee, before replying. “I made a video about the West Slope Hotel downtown.” 

 

Lance nods, he remembers that video. It was one of the earliest vids Keith uploaded, when he first started leaving his apartment for footage. 

 

“I left the location about two in the morning, and passed by Lotty’s on the way back. The lights were on and I was hungry.” Keith shrugs. “Been coming here ever since.” 

 

A waitress with bright blue hair comes through the door, ready to start her morning shift. Keith raises his hand in greeting. 

 

“The pie here is really good too.” Keith blurts out. 

 

“Yeah?” Lance asks. He doesn’t doubt it, based on what he’s already sampled of the menu. But, judging by the way Keith is fidgeting, left hand unconsciously turning one of the studs in his ear, he seems to be getting at something beyond pie.  

 

“Yeah.” Keith nods, dropping both hands back into his lap. “Lotty won’t let you order it after pancakes though. But maybe next time, if we get done with a shoot earlier…”

 

Lance beams at him. “I’m coming with you next time too?” Keith hasn’t even reviewed the footage Lance shot at the movie theater, but he’s including Lance in his plans for future episodes? This is unexpected. Lance shifts in his seat, delighted. 

 

“If you want.”

 

Lance spreads out his hands in the air enthusiastically, almost flinging his fork across the room. “I can see it now, ‘Lance and Keith: Ghostbusting Partner Extraordinaires.’” 

 

Keith snorts. “That’s so lame.” 

 

“Lamer than your fanny pack?” Lance challenges, leaning across the table to steal a bite of Keith’s hashbrowns. 

 

“It’s not a fanny pack!” Keith easily parries Lance’s fork. “It’s a utility belt.” 

 

“Fanny pack.”

 

“Utility belt!” 

 

Lance concedes the point. “When we get famous, I don’t want you wearing it in any of the promotional posters.” 

 

Keith  _ giggles _ , and it’s the most charming thing Lance has ever heard. “You’re delusional.” 

 

Lance grins back at him. “So where to next, boss man?” 

 

As if he was waiting to be asked, Keith pushes his empty plate to the side and rustles around in his bag for his notebook. Evidently, he has a few ideas. 

 

* 

 

And so, once again, Lance finds himself squinting out the windshield of his car, late at night, wondering if his gps can possibly be correct. The last hint of “civilization” he passed was twenty minutes ago, a Sunoco station next to a dimly lit, suspicious-as-fuck Dollar General. Since then, it’s been nothing but narrow roads, winding him deeper and deeper into the woods. 

 

A sign crops up on the side of the road, directing him to “Shady Trails Family Campground.”  _ Hell no, _ does Keith have him en route to Camp Crystal Lake or some shit? He turns the radio down, listening for the next turn and almost jumps out of his skin when a text notification cuts through the silence instead. 

 

**From Keith** : still coming 

**To Keith** : depends, is jason going to be there too 

**From Keith** : (...) 

 

One eye on the road, the other watching the pending text from Keith, Lance fails to suppress a smirk. He can practically see the confusion on Keith’s face, trying to work out who Lance means by Jason. A solid two minutes later, Keith finally responds: 

 

**From Keith** : No 

 

Lance laughs outright. 

 

He’s about to thumb out a response-- _ you know, crazy mom, hockey mask, little murder-y? _ \-- when--

 

\---all of a sudden, his vision is filled with white. He’s blinded by a pair of headlights. Another car, out of nowhere, barrels towards him, fast, head-on. The car is in his lane, he’s going to----

 

\---panicking, Lance jerks the wheel, sending his car violently onto the strip of gravel skirting the side of the road. The tires squeal as he slams the brakes, eyes squeezed tight, bracing himself, impact still inevitable. 

 

The impact never comes. 

 

Lance opens his eyes, mere seconds later, to find himself completely alone. He looks wildly over his shoulder, hands still clutching the wheel, knuckles white. Nothing. No other cars on the road. It’s dark, true, but the road stretches out far enough behind him that he should definitely be able to see it. But. There’s nothing there. 

 

He shudders out a breath. And another. Slumped down in the driver’s seat, his hands tremble as he picks his phone back up. He looks at the text he has half typed to Keith, vision swimming. He hits the “call” button instead of sending it. 

 

It rings for a moment, and then Keith’s voice, familiar in its gentle rasp, is with him. “Hello? Lance?”

 

“H-hey.” Lance frowns at the stutter. He sounds as shaky as he feels. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hey man.”

 

“What’s going on? Is everything--Are you okay?” 

 

Lance looks over his shoulder once more at the empty road, phone pressed to his ear. His heart is pounding. 

 

“Yeah. I was--I don’t know how to explain it.” He swallows. “I guess I almost crashed.” 

 

Keith swears. “Where are you?” 

 

There’s nothing around him but woods, dark and indistinguishable. “I don’t-- I don’t know. I think the gps said I wasn’t far?” 

 

The motorcycle roars to life, so loud he can barely make out Keith’s response. “I’ll come to you. Just stay put, okay?” 

 

“Okay.” 

 

Keith arrives just a few minutes later, but it’s more than enough time for Lance to compose himself. He feels like an idiot. He should have never called Keith--nerves of steel, fearless, badass Keith--on the verge of tears from a crash that didn’t even happen. Wasn’t even real, possibly. 

 

Keith cuts the engine on his bike, tugs his helmet off, and stalks towards Lance, still sitting in his car. Lance hurries to get out, too aware of the cold set of Keith’s eyes, the way his lips are pressed together tightly. 

 

“Sorry about th--” 

 

“Are you okay?” Keith cuts him off. The hand not gripping his helmet is clenched in a fist at his side. 

 

“I’m fine.” Lance looks guiltily at his feet, hands fluttering in front of him, nervous. He forces out a laugh. “I guess I freaked, huh? Sorry, I-” 

 

“Don’t--” Keith looks heavenward, thumb working over his knuckles, in an attempt to calm himself. His shoulders sag and he looks at Lance, unclenching his fist. Keith sighs out, relief evident in his voice, “Don’t apologize.” 

 

Lance nods. 

 

He leans back, slumped against his car. Keith sidles up next to him, mirroring his position. Eyes on Keith’s boots, Lance tells Keith what happened, although it’s not much. Keith listens, head bowed, one finger tapping thoughtfully on his elbow, his arms crossed. He stands close to Lance, close enough that Lance can feel the warmth of his skin, almost uncomfortable in the sticky heat of the summer night. It’s grounding. 

 

“D’you think you feel okay to drive home?” Keith asks him quietly when Lance talks himself out. 

 

“Drive home?” Lance straightens up and looks at Keith, incredulous. “As in now? Before we shoot the episode?” 

 

Keith nods. 

 

Lance shakes his head in disbelief. As if he would. He slings one arm over Keith’s shoulders. The other hand shoots a lazy finger gun for emphasis. “Buddy, you’re not getting rid of Lance McClain that easily.”  

 

Keith peels his arm off of his shoulders and steps away, but he doesn’t look angry. A kind of wry confusion, maybe, but he’s definitely not mad. “Duly noted.” He slides his helmet back on, revs his bike, and motions for Lance to follow him. 

 

*

 

‘Crybaby Bridge,’ as it’s been dubbed by many an urban legend, is less than a mile from Lance’s car incident. He really was almost there. Keith pulls off the side of the road and Lance is close behind, nervous at the sight of where they’ll be spending the night. The bridge looms tall, a metal skeleton monstrous against the black night sky. The beams are rusted and jagged, slicing up from either side of the narrow road in a way that would provide little protection if one were to actually be close to falling. 

 

Getting out of his car, Lance treads carefully to the edge of the embankment the bridge crosses. It’s not much of a river but it’s definitely far enough down and full of enough rocks to be dangerous. He backs up. “So,” he gets his stuff out of his car and watches Keith set up, “What’s the plan, man?” 

 

Keith has the thermal cam hanging from his neck, and his normal vlogging camera in his hand. He straps a little light to his forehead and looks utterly ridiculous. Also adorable. Lance scratches the side of his nose, hiding a smile as Keith looks around the area, eyes squinting in concentration. 

 

“Uh.” Keith turns the camera on himself and adjusts the light. “I came out here last week during the day to get some shots of the bridge and the surrounding woods. Wanted to scope it out, see how it would work for a video.” He holds up a device that looks suspiciously like a remote control from a very dated television set. “I’m not going to be filming tonight with my camera after the intro. I’ll be trying to pick up EVPs with this, while you handle the video.” 

 

Lance nods. “Can do.” 

 

Keith positions himself in front of the bridge, and begins. “Welcome back to my channel. Tonight we’re at Crybaby Bridge.” He begins pacing backwards in a way that makes Lance nervous, although Keith is still far from the drop off. “Of course, nearly every state has at least a few locations that locals refer to as ‘crybaby bridge.’ Usually the legend goes that the area is haunted because a woman drowned an unwanted child.” He pauses, like he might expand on this idea, but then abruptly continues. “Sometime the story goes that the woman also commits suicide. Or is murdered by a jealous husband or lover.” 

 

Keith begins to walk alongside the edge of the river, shrugging for Lance to follow. Calculated steps edge them down into the river bed. Keith turns back to his camera. “This particular location has lots of paranormal activity associated with it. Crybaby bridges are known for the sound of wailing infant-- and here it’s said to be heard on any clear night, emanating from beneath the bridge.” Keith halts, barely winded from the climb down that has Lance struggling to catch his breath. “We’re walking down underneath the bridge now, to try to capture audio of that.” 

 

Keith motions to the line of woods, now above their heads. “There have also been reports of a ghost, a figure of a woman, walking along the edge of the woods, just there.” He holds up his thermal camera. “I’ll be watching with this for any possible apparitions or orbs.” 

 

Keith continues, recounting various sightings and anecdotal evidence that he’s read. Lance, typically the type of guy who never shuts up, is all too content to listen to him, the sound of Keith’s voice textured and vivid in the quiet of the woods. 

 

They set up directly beneath the bridge. Keith finds a patch of dry rock and takes a seat, hunching over his camera to review the intro he just shot, checking if there’s anything he wants to add before he goes any further. 

 

The huge cement blocks supporting the overpass are slimy with the murky water. “I would cry too, if I was stuck out here,” Lance kicks a rock into the water, listening to the  _ ker-plunk _ as it disappears beneath the surface. He pans the camera up over his head, getting a shot of the underside of the bridge, peeking out at the sky. He settles down next to Keith. 

 

The stars hang bright in the sky, this far from the city. It reminds him of home. Crystal clear night skies above beaches, lit up by bonfires and the happy faces of his family. Lance pushes the thoughts away. “Hate the woods. It’s way too creepy out here at night.” 

 

“Really?” Keith looks genuinely surprised. “I like the woods.” 

 

“You would,” Lance scoffs. “It’s practically a family reunion for you out here, what with the jersey devil and bigfoot and Frankenstein.” 

 

“Frankenstein is not--” 

 

“Oh excuse me,” Lance interrupts. “Frankenstein’s  _ monster _ .” 

 

Lance does the best he can to keep his expression solemn, but Keith looks so irritated as he searches his face, that it’s impossible to not break into a grin. 

 

Keith starts to snicker, quietly at first, but then, like a dam breaking, he collapses into a stupid sounding laugh, shoulders shaking, his arms wrapped around himself. His cheek presses into Lance’s shoulder. A snort escapes and he runs one hand over his face. 

 

Lance chuckles, a warm feeling that’s kind of like pride and kind of like contentment and kind of like joy bubbling up in his chest. One hand rubs at the back of his neck self consciously. It shouldn’t feel this good to make someone laugh. “It wasn’t that funny.” 

 

“Frankenstein’s monster, my ass.” Keith punches him, sitting back up. The laugh hasn’t completely left his face and he meets Lance’s eyes with a lopsided grin. “You ready to take over, cameraman?” 

 

Lance pops himself up off the rock, flexes into a ridiculous pose, “I was born ready.” He flips the camera to himself and gives it a roguish wink for good measure. He turns the lens to Keith, who is once more all business. Flitting around him, trying a few dynamic angles, Lance curses. “Shit, Keith.” 

 

“What? What is it?”

 

“You don’t--” Lance shakes his head in disbelief, “--you don’t have a good side.” 

 

Keith wrinkles his nose. “Very funny Lance. You ready to start?” 

 

“Oh babe, it was just a joke,” Lance winks, “the camera  _ looooves _ you.”

 

Keith glances into the lens, awkward, and clears his throat. He looks around the area. “Locals have heard the sound of sobbing here, a disembodied, mournful cry. Is there anyone here with us tonight?”

 

They both stand still, listening to the quiet of the woods, the mild flow of the water at their feet. Nothing responds. 

 

“It sounds weird, but if you talk into this little box I’m holding, we’ll be able to hear you.” Keith holds the EVP detector out in front of him. “See the red light towards the end? Talk into that and we can hear you.” 

 

Silence. 

 

He continues, slowly asking questions, pausing between each one, “Why are you still here? …..Did you fall from the bridge? ….Were you murdered? ...Who--” 

 

Lance shuffles his feet. “Uh, not to be a smartass, but why would a baby be talking anyways?” 

 

Keith shoots him a withering glare. “There may be other spirits here. Obviously not just babies.” 

 

“Okay so how do you know that they even speak English? Like, what if this area is just German ghosts or something?” 

 

“German? Why would--How does that even--Look, Lance,” Keith stops abruptly. His eyes flick to the side as a howl echoes faint in the distance.

 

“What. Was that.” Lance looks around wildly. “Keith, what was that? A ghost? Was that a wolf? A ghost wolf? That was definitely a wolf. Fuck, Keith, we’re going to get eaten.” 

 

“There is  _ no way _ that there are wolves in this forest.” 

 

“You don’t know that! What if it, like, escaped from a zoo or something?” 

 

Keith throws his hands up, “Sure, Lance, it escaped from a zoo and right now the thing it’s most hungry for is tall, insufferable guys with blue eyes and stupid ideas about German ghost babies.” 

 

“You and your jokes, Keith. I, for one, do not--” Lance stops his pacing. He looks at Keith, suspicious. “Wait. How did you know my eyes are blue?”

 

Keith mouth drops open and his eyebrows knit together. “Because I can see?” 

 

“That’s,” Lance falls silent because he doesn’t know quite  _ what  _ to think of that. Something rustles at the edge of the woods. “The ghost wolf! Keith!!” Lance edges behind him, putting Keith between the trees and himself. “Where’s your crowbar,” he hisses under his breath. 

 

“For Christ’s sake.” Keith holds up the thermal imaging camera. On the screen, the outline of a deer hesitates, then darts away, further into the woods. “Will you calm down?” 

 

Lance turns the camera away from the treeline back onto Keith’s face. “Don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m totes calm. Cool and Collected Lance McClain, that’s what they always call me. A real level headed guy, I--” 

 

“Shh,” Keith holds out a hand. He frowns slightly, eyes moving back and forth as he listens. “I thought I heard something.” 

 

Lance closes his eyes, concentrating. Thirty seconds, a minute, two minutes pass. One eyebrow ticks up, his mouth pulls into a frown, and then he gives up, dramatically shrugging into a slouch. “Nope. Nadda. Nothing to hear.” 

 

Keith lets out an exasperated huff. “Maybe if you weren’t such a blabbermouth!”

 

“Relax, Keith.” Lance waves the hand not holding the camera towards Keith. “The EVP thing probably got it anyways.” 

 

Undeterred by Keith’s grumpiest pout, Lance continues to offer a running commentary as they resume questioning the night. His mood couldn’t be brighter. 

 

*

 

Lance bites back a scream as Hunk picks up yet another jar of jam. 

 

“---because, of course, traditionally, Linzer cookies are made with raspberry jam,” 

 

“Of course,” Lance agrees. 

 

“--Which, makes sense because, obviously, the tart of the berry is the perfect contrast for the buttery, almond-y goodness of the cookie,” 

 

“Obviously.” Lance resists the urge to snatch both jars out of Hunk’s hands and put them in the shopping basket and walk away, making the decision for him. An elderly woman gives them a concerned look as she picks up a jar of grape jelly and shuffles past with her cart. 

 

“And I mean, I’m all for tradition, but I just don’t _ know _ .” Hunk looks fearfully in the direction of  the produce section. “Ideally the jam would be homemade and raspberries  _ are _ coming into season, but the last time I bought a carton here, the quality was a little,” Hunk lowers his voice “ _ not great _ ,” he looks at the time on his phone, woeful, “and the farmer’s market is already closed for the night.” 

 

“Better not chance it, bud.” Lance pats Hunk on the arm, attempting to offer moral support, beleaguered though it is. 

 

Hunk texted Lance earlier that afternoon when he found out that he had been assigned to yet  _ another _ project at work. Not only brilliant, but also an incredible team member, Hunk is constantly in high demand for collaborative projects. And, Lance knows, Hunk is amazing at his job, but….sometimes it can be a little too much. Lance wasn’t at all surprised when he dropped by Hunk’s house to check up on him, and a high-intensity, anxiety-induced stress-baking session was already in full swing. The emergency jam supply-run followed soon after. 

 

Lance has to bite his tongue when Hunk decides to google the two brands he’s stuck between so that he can read online reviews. He loves this man, but Hunk does not know the meaning of halfway. Especially when it comes to cooking. Trying to be patient, Lance surveys the rest of the preserves available. 

 

He’s drawn to the blueberries and a memory of syrup-sticky half smiles. Keith licking off the tips of his fingers before jotting down notes, absorbed in his thoughts, nodding slowly at Lance’s comments. Keith, with the dimple and the stupid laugh. Keith, who knows his eyes are blue. Keith who--

 

“What?” Hunk interrupts his thoughts. 

 

“Huh?” Lance asks. “I didn’t say anything.” 

 

“You were making the face.” 

 

“What face?” 

 

Hunk puts the jars he’s been contemplating back on the shelf and Lance audibly sighs. Back to square one. “You know. The Face. The ‘ _ Oh my name’s Lance and I’m a gift to all my fellow beautiful people, let me grace you with my terrible pick-up lines and flawless skin _ ’ face.” 

 

“Okay, first of all I do not have a face like that.” Lance purses his lips. “Second of all, thank you for saying my skin is flawless.” 

 

“I’m pretty sure you definitely do. And, you’re welcome.” 

 

The fact that he has it bad for Keith, apparently much worse than he previously thought, is not something he’s not ready to come to terms with in aisle nine of Corner Lane Market, so Lance changes the subject. “Hunk--this might be crazy, but hear me out--what if you use blueberry jam?”

 

“Oh, nice one Lance!” Hunk quips. “I almost didn’t notice that you totally and completely avoided the question.”  

 

Now if that doesn’t sound like Pidge, then nothing does.  _ Damn Pidge, corrupting his once so innocent best friend. _ Lance backtracks, trying to decide on a good reason to be smiling dopey and lovestruck at jars of jam. 

 

“But,” Hunk begins, and Lance knows that he’s in the clear, because that is Hunk’s  _ ‘Oh my name’s Hunk and I just had a flash of enlightenment and I’m going to take this idea and run with it _ ’ face. Score. Off the proverbial hook. “You might have a point.” Hunk picks up a jar of blueberry jam, light in his eyes and fire in his soul. “I’ll use blueberry jam and also add a just a touch of lemon zest and honey to the cookies, yeah, that should complement the almond well...and there’s this vanilla bourbon glaze I’ve been wanting to try, I can make that for the center cutouts, it’ll be perfect with the blueberry, now where’s--” muttering to himself, Hunk finally sets a jar in the shopping basket and moves on to the next aisle, Lance silently cheering in tow. 

 

*

 

Keith opens the door in a pair of gray joggers and wooly socks. 

 

Which is. Definitely playing dirty. Right? Because, how was Lance supposed to mentally prepare himself for this?

 

When he got the text from Keith, “ _ Want to come over and review this audio we recorded? _ ” there was  _ no _ indication that he would be met with a half-undressed Keith, soft looking sweatpants slung low on his hips. 

 

When Lance had readily agreed and Keith had replied with, “ _ cool _ ,” and given him an address and a time, there was  _ no _ warning that he would have to endure freshly out of the shower Keith, his hair slightly damp, face still pink from the steam. 

 

Keith’s tattoo, one of the first things Lance had noticed about him when they met at The Blade-- Keith running a hand through his hair, exasperated--is finally fully visible. Mouth just a  _ little _ dry, Lance notes that Keith has several others, all of them stark black ink, rich and saturated against his pale skin. He’s just as toned as Lance has imagined, reveries stemming from strong arms pulling him down, pressed together in close-quarters in the dark. 

 

“Hey,” he greets Lance, pulling the door open. Lance toes his sneakers off in the entryway, looking around the apartment, definitely not gaping at the gorgeous roll of the muscles under Keith’s bare skin, definitely not. 

 

“Be right back,” Keith mumbles before padding down the hall, out of sight. A black and white cat pokes its head out of one of the rooms. Lance crouches down, motioning for it to come closer. An orange cat joins the black one, both of them eyeing Lance with suspicion from across the room. 

 

“Do you mind if I snag something to drink?” Lance calls after him. Keith says something unintelligible in reply, but Lance is already exploring his kitchen anyways. 

 

Keith returns a moment later, with the addition of a white tee shirt, his hair pulled back into a little ponytail at the crown of his head.  

 

“Keith.” Lance turns to him, face grave. “Are you aware that this milk is,” he looks down at the label again, “almost three months out of date?” 

 

Keith fails to look even the least bit surprised. “Better drink something else then.” 

 

Lance sighs and continues rummaging around Keith’s kitchen, mostly because it’s a distraction from how sweet Keith looks right now, how unguarded, how  _ kissable _ . And also because Lance is nosy as heck. 

 

The fridge is empty, save for some take out containers and a worrisome array of energy drinks. A large canister of protein powder sits on the counter next to a half eaten loaf of bread. A preliminary pantry sweep reveals an economy sized bag of cat food and several cans of Spaghetti O’s, which may or may not be fit for human consumption. “It’s official.” Lance decides. “There is nothing edible in this apartment.” 

 

“If you’re hungry, I’ll order a pizza or something.” Keith’s tone is verging on irritation. He grabs the can out of Lance’s hand and returns it to its forever home, in the recesses of the closet. 

 

It’s not that he’s hungry; it’s the principle of the matter. Lance sets his hands on Keith’s shoulders and issues a declaration: “You’re letting me cook for you.” 

 

Keith blinks up at him, solemn eyes under dark brows, knit ever-so-slightly in confusion. “Right now?” 

 

Lance rolls his eyes but does not lessen his grip. “Not right this minute. But sometime soon.” 

 

“Why?” 

 

Lance deflates and waves one of his hands, indicating the vague idea of a life skill that Keith is clearly lacking. “Because that’s the best way to learn? I’m nothing fancy like Hunk, but I can manage pretty well. And not because anyone taught me, exactly, just from being with my mama in the kitchen, hanging out while she cooked.” 

 

“Ah. That’s probably why I never got it then.” Keith smiles, a little wry. “Shiro can’t cook for shit.” 

 

Lance tilts his head. “Shiro?” 

 

Keith nods, handing Lance a Monster out of the fridge before cracking one open for himself. He heads over to the couch. “My brother. This is his apartment, technically.” 

 

No wonder. That explains why this apartment feels too large for one person. Maybe it’s because Lance is used to his own place, crammed with a mish-mash of hand-me-down furniture from his older siblings, constantly in a state of disarray, but this place seems cold. This furniture is clean and modern, and frankly, a little boring. It doesn’t suit Keith at all.  

 

“So where’s Shiro now?” Lance asks, slipping a leg over the back of the couch, to plop down beside Keith in the most obtrusive way possible. 

 

Keith turns to him, expression serious. “You won’t believe me.” 

 

“Try me.” 

 

Keith huffs out a breath. He gets quiet, turns the can in his hands. “My brother. He was….abducted by aliens.” 

 

“...” 

 

“...” 

 

“....Okay.” Lance breathes out, not sure how to proceed. Keith bites his lip. Lance looks at him; Keith breaks eye contact. Still entrapped by his teeth, Keith’s lips slowly curve into a wicked smile. 

 

“You’re shitting me.” Lance says slowly. 

 

Keith bursts into a snicker, one hand covering his face, his composure gone. “Your face!” The snicker devolves into a full blown laugh. 

 

Lance crosses his arms, tosses his chin in the air. “Sure sure, yuk it up, Mr. Slumber Parties With Ghosts. It’s not that far fetched to think you believe in aliens too.”  

 

Keith sombers, wiping the tears out of the corners of his eyes roughly with a thumb. “Oh aliens are definitely real. But, Shiro is serving his third tour overseas.” He pulls out his phone and shows Lance his lockscreen. It’s a photo of Keith and a taller man in military uniform, standing side-by-side. Shiro’s hand is looped around Keith’s shoulders affectionately, pulling him close. 

 

“You miss him.” Lance states, watching Keith’s expression as he clicks the phone black again. 

 

“Yeah.” Keith coughs, awkward. “He watches my videos. Of course the internet is spotty out there, and he doesn’t have a lot of free time or anything, but when he gets a chance….” Keith shrugs. 

 

Lance nods. “Cool,” he says softly. He imagines Keith, researching and planning and editing videos while thinking of his brother far away, and something tugs in his chest. “I’m sure he--That’s really cool.” 

 

Keith nods, grabbing his laptop from where it’s been sitting open on the coffee table in front of them. He begins clicking around the editing software, opening to the audio he wants to review with Lance. 

 

“Ah! She finally appears!” Lance holds his hand out while the orange tabby creeps out to give his fingers a cautious sniff. “Keith probably trained you to bite me, huh?” 

 

Lance scratches at her chin as the cat settles down into his lap. Keith explains how he’s set up the video so far, and he plays it for Lance. It’s surreal to watch it with him in the same room. 

 

“Here’s where it gets good.” Keith hands Lance a pair of well-loved, over the ear headphones. 

 

_ “It sounds weird, but if you talk into this little box I’m holding, we’ll be able to hear you.” _

 

Keith voice is loud against static in the background. Lance looks at him. “Was I supposed to hear something yet?” 

 

“Keep listening.” Keith’s eyes are downcast, waiting. 

 

_ “See the red light towards the end? Talk into that and we can hear you.”  _

 

_ “..... _ **_ready_ ** _ …” _

 

Lance whips the headphones off, eyes wide. “Holy shit Keith, did it just say ‘ready’?” 

 

Keith grins. “That’s what I heard too.” He plays it again, turning the volume up, so that the static buzzes in Lance’s ears. The word is a whisper over the background noise, but a clear one. It gives Lance chills. 

 

“That’s not even the only thing.” Keith shuffles closer to him on the couch, motioning for Lance to be quiet again. “I’m gonna keep going.” 

_ “Why are you still here? _ … _..Did you fall from the bridge? _ ”

 

_ “.... _ **_dead_ ** _ …..”  _

 

Lance starts shouting, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. The orange tabby jumps down from his lap. He tosses the headphones back on the couch and starts pacing around the room.  _ “DEAD _ ?!! Keith, this ghost just deadass said ‘ _ dead _ ’ what the actual fuck? I swear if this is a joke you’re playing--” 

 

“It’s real.” Keith is beaming from ear to ear. “You’re freaking out too much.” 

 

“Dude, I have goosebumps.” Lance rubs his arms aggressively, sitting back down next to Keith on the couch, closer than they were before. “This is some next level shit.” 

 

Keith stills Lance’s fidgeting knee with a hand, carefully slides the headphones back over Lance’s ears. “I saved the best one for last.” 

 

Lance’s own voice sounds shrill in his ears, amplified by the EVP recorder. 

 

_ “....so how do you know that they even speak English? Like, what if this area is just German ghosts or something?”  _

 

“.. **_...heh…_ ** .” 

 

Lance looks at Keith. Keith raises his eyebrows, like,  _ well? _ Lance shakes his head in disbelief. “....The ghosts are laughing at me? You captured an EVP of a ghost making fun of me?”

 

“I knew I liked ghosts for a reason.” The smile makes Keith’s eyes crinkle around the edges. Lance never noticed before, but one of his teeth, the incisor to the right of his canine, is just a little crooked. It’s perfect. “So what do you think?” 

 

_ I think I’ve never wanted to kiss someone more than I want to kiss you right now.  _

 

Lance swallows. “Keith.” 

 

They’re seated side-by-side on the couch. When Keith shifts to face him, Lance could swear that his eyes flick to his mouth before meeting Lance’s gaze. 

 

Lance closes the space between them. 

 

Or he means to. The gesture that was meant to gently cup Keith’s cheek, to still him for a kiss, turns into a fumbling grasp at nothing, as Keith swiftly minimizes the editing software and rises to his feet, shoving the laptop off his lap. “---Pizza.” 

 

“Huh?” Lance sits up properly on the couch, watching as Keith picks up his phone and dials. 

 

“I said, how about we order that pizza and keep going?” 

 

Lance slumps against the couch. Even for someone as oblivious as Keith, that was a very obvious rejection. He’s never wanted pizza less in his life. “Sounds great,” he manages. 

 

Yeah. He’s in deep. This is a problem. 

 

***

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (singing voice) we are buuurn~ning~


	4. I Just Died in Your Arms Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotional intimacy is so much scarier than anything from beyond the grave.

***

 

So. 

 

It’s not worth denying at this point. Not that he really ever was  _ denying  _ it, per se, hello, cute boy makes not-so-cute ghost videos was the appeal from the beginning. But now it’s on another level. Lance has kinda sorta got a thing for Keith. 

 

Like a  _ thing _ thing. Like a  _ getting an irrational bubble of happiness when he sees he has a text from Keith _ thing. Like fantasizing about hands clothed in fingerless gloves, a toned chest a very  _ specific  _ shade of pale, the bite that would come after a certain smirk  _ thing _ . Like breaking a date with a cute girl he exchanged numbers with in a coffeehouse  _ to go sit in a haunted museum _ at ten til midnight on a Friday night  _ thing _ . 

 

The sign outside The Galaxy Reach Museum boasts that it is “one of the oldest military aviation museums in the world.” The initial exhibits are stuff like air balloons and the first plane, but as visitors walk through the artifacts, the entire history of flight is detailed year-by-year, all the way to the latest spacecraft. The museum is huge; five ginormous aircraft hangars filled with old planes and military paraphernalia…..and all of it supposedly crawling with ghosts. To be honest, Lance doesn’t know much more about it than that; Keith pulled him in just prior to closing time, told him to lie low for a tick, and then slipped off towards the security desk. 

 

Lance sighs. He’s not used to fixating on crushes that don’t progress. This is something more than casual flirtation or exchanging numbers with a pretty face. He’s re-lived The Pizza Moment over and over again in his mind since leaving Keith’s apartment after editing. Every time he thinks of it, he’s more and more convinced he just looked like an idiot. 

 

About ten minutes have passed since Keith left him next to the museum entrance, and Lance, malcontent to just stay put, has sprawled himself out on a bench about a hundred years past where Keith left him. The bench is next to a hyper realistic mannequin who is clothed in a military uniform from one of the world wars. The thing looks like it could start moving at any second. Forget ghosts, the mannequins installed at every display around this place are creepy enough. 

 

“So, Henry,” Lance hasn’t bothered to read the plaque next to the mannequin, so he doesn’t know if he has a specific name, but he looks like a Henry, “You having boy troubles too?” 

 

Henry looks blankly off into the distance, towards the hangar that houses aircraft from the Cold War. “Yeah,” Lance agrees, following his gaze, but upside down, his head is hanging off the bench, legs bicycling in the air. “It sucks.” 

 

“Lance,” Keith jogs up to him, from the direction of the entrance. “I just talked to the security guard, we have about three hours before he’s gotta kick us out---were you talking to someone?” 

 

“Just my main man, Henry,” Lance says, lazily stretching his arms above his head after he rises from his prone position. 

 

Keith looks around, puzzled. His brow is furrowed and he tilts his head to look behind Lance, mouth pulled into a suspicious pout. Adorable. 

 

“Augh!” Lance scrubs his hands through his hair, before throwing his arms up in the air and addressing Henry again. “We’re in some deep shit, dude.” 

 

Keith looks at the mannequin and back at Lance. “You are so weird.” 

 

“Says the guy who wants to walk around this place at night, filled with these terrifying mannequins wearing dead people’s clothes.” Lance shoots back, before looking apologetic over his shoulder, “No offense, Henry.” (Henry accepts his apology placidly and without comment). 

 

Keith shrugs. Lance catches just a hint of a smile crossing his lips as he leans down to adjust the straps on his bag. “You ready?”

 

Ready for what, Lance is not sure, as Keith makes no move to begin filming. He does not rattle off an introduction, or even so much as take his camera out of his bag. The original goal, i.e. ghost hunting, seems to be completely forgotten, as Keith flits from display to display, geeking out about the specs and the history detailed there. Lance expected spectral figures or ethereal voices that night, but actually makes a discovery of a different sort: Keith is a massive plane nerd. 

 

His enthusiasm is contagious. Lance is all too happy to follow him around, camera off, hands in his pockets, as Keith leads them deeper into the museum, rattling off details regarding the armament, and the engines, and the maximum speed of the various planes like it’s common knowledge. Keith has obviously frequented this museum many, many times before. It’s like Lance is on his own private, after-hours tour. 

 

The lights are dimmed, and Lance watches their shadows flicker over the walls as they slowly make their way through the years of aviation history. Keith usually walks with his arms tight at his side, posture closed, but right now, his arms swing lightly at his side as he walks slightly ahead. Lance fights the urge to catch one of his hands in his own. 

 

Keith turns around, pausing before the final room. “This is it.” 

 

“Huh?” Lance sways to look past his shoulder. Unlike the numerous exhibits they’ve been winding through for the past hour, this room looks mostly empty. “It’s what?” 

 

“The best part.” 

 

Frowning at his cryptic response, Lance walks into the room. The light is too dim to discern much of anything. He  _ feels _ Keith stand at his side rather than sees him, bare arms brushing lightly against each other. There’s a soft click as the latch catches, the door swinging shut behind them, leaving them in complete darkness. Keith is fiddling with something in his hands. A whirring noise, like a cd spinning up, is faint in the background. Lance finds himself holding his breath. 

 

And then. A entire galaxy splays itself out over their heads, more vibrant than any night sky Lance has ever seen. Familiar constellations and far off stars turn ever so slowly on the ceiling above. Lance sighs out his admiration, teetering forward, eyes heavenward. 

 

Keith breathes in deep behind him and Lance tears his eyes from the stars to look at him. The pinpricks of light cast shadows over his face, softening all the edges. Lance smiles, gently chiding: “I’m beginning to think I’ve been duped.” 

 

He looks up at Lance, questioning. 

 

“I don’t think we actually came here for ghosts, Keith.” 

 

Keith shakes his head. 

 

Then why? Lance wants to ask. Keith doesn’t give a reason, but he does break his silence, voice low, explaining the artificial sky. Hesitant fingertips brush over Lance’s wrist, the back of his hand, as he motions to the stars above, making sure they’re seeing the same thing.  

 

Lance is no stranger to star gazing. He matches Keith’s explanations with stories of his own; the words rich on his tongue and wrapped in warm memories of his  _ abuelita _ . Keith tilts his head, openly enrapt, and it seems like this is the most vulnerable he’s ever been. This is something precious, something that makes Lance feel weak in his chest, and at a loss for words as for how to describe. 

 

The feeling doesn’t go away. Not when the security guard finds them to lock up for the night. Not when Keith apologizes, a little sheepish, that they didn’t film anything. Not when they part for the night, and Lance is left to wonder what comes next. 

 

*

 

The summer nights get hotter as June becomes July, and July melts into August. Making videos with Keith becomes part of his routine, like juggling shifts at work, cookouts with Hunk, yoga with Pidge. However, no matter how much time they spend together, no matter how much they joke around, or how many slow smiles he’s privy to, Lance still, somehow, ends up starry eyed. 

 

Lance assembles a massive back-to-school display at work the same day that he and Keith are planning to tour a penitentiary with a history of ghostly activity.  For once, Lance does not get lost on his way to the location. He meets up with Keith outside and they have a few extra minutes before the tour starts. As he gets the opening shots for the video, Lance bemoans the symbolic end of summer with the advent of the large cartoon pencils, garish expressions grinning down at him from every endcap. Keith listens, intently, as if Lance’s complaints about endless bins of Crayola are a problem he can solve. 

 

The prison tour is fun; the guide is a skinny man in wingtips who has a nasally voice that echoes off the cement walls through which he strides. The other members of the tour are primarily a group of middle-aged women. They titter and squeeze each other’s hands at the guide’s well-rehearsed retelling of the prison’s gruesome history….that is, until Lance starts distracting them. (Flirting with cougars is fun, but seeing Keith get more and more riled up as the guide loses all semblance of control over the group is pure entertainment.) 

 

Fifteen minutes in they are far more taken in by Lance’s stories---in full charm mode---than by anything Jeffery the tour guide has to say: 

 

“Oh, Joyce, believe me, I wouldn’t make this stuff up…perfect, Linda’s already got her phone out. Sheryl, don’t think I don’t see you shaking your head, those platinum blonde highlights of yours are impossible to miss. Okay now, type this in, Linda, ‘red_lion_haunts.’ Okay, scroll down…” 

 

Jeffery, while not overly pleased with Lance stealing his thunder, is downright disgruntled when Keith and Lance desert the group. One minute Lance is adding Joyce as a friend on facebook and the next minute, Keith is pulling him into a secluded corridor. He presses Lance close to the wall, a hand over his mouth as they watch the tour disappear from sight. Heart hammering in his chest, Lance remains mute as Keith pulls out his EVP detector, a cat-like grin making its way across his face. 

 

Cameras aren’t  _ technically _ allowed on the tour, but combined with their phones and the audio from the EVP, they get enough footage for a video. 

 

Nevermind that Lance replays the feeling of Keith pushing him against the wall, just a little rough, breath hot on his neck, for weeks afterwards. 

 

*

 

Then there is the time that Lance ends up sweet talking their way out of an arrest. 

 

Spring Grove Cemetery and Arboretum is supposed to be home to a myriad of spectral activity: orbs, full body apparitions, disembodied voices, the whole shebang. Keith is so excited to film there; he texts Lance nonstop the week prior to the shoot with stories about the experiences people have had. When they finally go to shoot, it’s a perfect night for it---the gothic architecture of the mausoleums rising out of a rolling fog. The plan is to spend the night exploring the sprawling grounds…except, turns out, that’s not allowed. At all. Barely an hour into filming, and two cop cars show up, the officers very much alive, and not at all pleased with Keith and Lance. 

 

Acting purely out of instinct, Keith is wide eyes, crouched to the ground, his bag tight in his hands. He’s about to make a run for it, and maybe would have been successful too, had Lance not latched onto his arm, hiked him up to his feet, and hissed,“Just let me handle this.” 

 

Lance has talked his way out of trouble more times than he can count. He shoots the officers his most ingratiating smile, snapback and camera tucked behind his back, out of sight. The picture of innocence. A little disbelief, a little flattery, a little humor, and Lance and Keith are off with a stern warning. 

 

As the police officers give them a wave in parting, Keith turns to him, expression more shocked than Lance has ever seen it from anything paranormal. Lance shoots him a lazy finger gun. “Told ya I’d handle it.” 

 

It’s been the most fun summer of his life. 

 

*

 

“This is the best part,” Lance hisses under his breath. Pidge’s eyes don’t leave the screen but they put a finger to their lips, a silent “shhh.” Hunk makes an undignified noise and scoots a little closer to Lance, in anticipation of something jumping out, like this is a horror movie. 

 

The three of them are piled together on the couch in Pidge’s apartment, taking a break from video games to watch the latest upload on Keith’s channel. Lance is particularly proud of this episode. It’s the one where they attempted to spend the night in the cemetery, and Keith agreed to let Lance edit much more than any of the previous videos. Actual creative control. Despite the shortage of footage (although they  _ maaaaay _ have stayed just a little longer after talking to the cops,  _ whoops _ ) the episode turned out surprisingly creepy. And, more importantly, it feels like this is something that he and Keith made together. 

 

They’re almost to the best part, (which, incidentally, has nothing to do with ghosts and is just Lance giving the camera an exceptionally salacious wink), when Matt has to drop in and interrupt the moment. He’s wearing some lame anime tee shirt, his skinny arm elbow deep in a barrel of cheese puffs, and has awful timing. 

 

“Matt!” Lance groans, pausing the video. 

 

“That’s the name, don’t wear it out.” Matt cocks his head to one side. “Whatcha watching?” He leans over to get a better view of the screen. The frame is paused on Lance smiling in the foreground, with a put-upon Keith in the back corner. “Is that Keith? Shiro’s Keith?” 

 

“You know Shiro?” Lance turns to look at Matt. 

 

“About yea tall, built like a house, heart of gold---Shirogane Takashi?” Matt motions above his head and flexes his non-existent biceps in pantomime. “Keith’s foster brother? Yeah, of course I know Shiro. He was my upperclassman in college. A beloved senpai. I didn’t know  _ you _ knew Keith.” 

 

Pidge snorts at Matt’s use of the word  _ senpai  _ and moves the cursor back to the beginning so Matt can watch the whole thing with them. “Yeah, I introduced them. Lance has been helping him with his ghost hunting videos.” 

 

“Ah, spooky. Let’s see it then.” Matt nods sagely before leaning over to watch as Pidge starts the episode again. It goes over well, the three of them appropriately amused and freaked out in turn. 

 

Lance puffs with pride when Hunk compliments the closing shot--- a pan up from graveyard’s entryway. “I filmed that!” 

 

He tells them about he and Keith’s run in with the police that night, perhaps adding in a few embellishments and slightly exaggerating Keith’s ensuing gratitude. Pidge, of course, picks up on this and can’t resist teasing Lance about his lack of romantic progress, despite the obviousness of his overwhelming infatuation. Lance glowers. It’s not like he meant to develop a giant, ridiculous crush on someone whose idea of a good time is talking to no one in derelict buildings. 

 

Lance knows Matt is going to say something stupid before he even opens his mouth, based on his smirk alone: “So Lance, basically,  _ all those ghosts and you still can’t find no boo _ .” 

 

This sends Hunk into a giggle fit, breathy little gasps that hardly seem like they could originate from his large frame. Pidge groans aggressively. 

 

Lance grumbles at Matt’s weirdly self-satisfied smile. “Not even original material. In internet time, that joke is ancient.” He gets up from his spot between his friends on the couch and relocates to his favorite armchair, in a bit of a huff. 

 

Matt shrugs, not his fault if these kids can’t appreciate a good meme, “I’m surprised that you’re hanging out with Keith at all.” 

 

Lance crosses his arms, defensive. “What’s wrong with Keith.” 

 

Matt waves his hand, the tips of his fingers stained orange with cheese dust. “Nothing at all. I mean, I’ve just never seen him this affectionate with anyone except Shiro.” 

 

“I don’t know if I would call Keith  _ affectionate _ , exactly.” Pidge interjects. Lance---thinking of a fair amount of their time together, sitting on a concrete floor of a supposedly haunted building, a foot apart in silence while Keith picks under his nails with a pocket knife--- is inclined to agree. 

 

“Huh. Well, I knew Keith before so maybe I read him differently than you guys.” Matt sits on the armrest next to his sibling and makes as if he’s going to rub his cheesy hand on Pidge’s face. They block him and shove a napkin into his chest, rolling their eyes. 

 

“Before what?” Lance leans forward a little. 

 

His mouth scrunched to one side, Matt seems to choose his words carefully. “He really went through it after his dad died. I don’t know all the details, but from what I know from Shiro, it was rough. In school, he didn’t---uh, let’s just say he wasn’t well liked by a lot of people. He had a reputation for being a major jerk and he slept around, got in a lot of fights…..The rumors about him were crazy.” Matt shakes his head. 

 

“Shiro was always there for him, but...” Matt frowns at his hands in his lap. “When Shiro was first deployed, I don’t know what happened, but Keith dropped out of school entirely. It must’ve been bad...” He bumps Pidge’s shoulder with his own. “I’m glad you’re friends with him now. Seems like he’s doing a lot better.” 

 

“Dang.” Hunk looks genuinely distressed. Were Keith in the room, he would definitely be getting a bone-crushing, feet-off-the-floor hug right about now. As it stands, Hunk just looks at Lance sideways. “You know any of that, dude?” 

 

“No.” This person Matt is describing doesn’t seem like Keith at all. His Keith is prickly and unapproachable, but….nothing like that. Over the course of the summer, Lance has found that--provided one knows the right subjects: anything paranormal, fast motorcycles or fast cars or fast planes, dessert-- Keith is an enthusiastic conversationalist. Chatty, even. And he’s pretty sure he’s finally got the hang of Keith’s sense of humor, managing to pull a laugh out of him even in the most dire of haunts. But, when it comes to his past, or his family, Keith is just as reticent as when they first met. 

 

Matt jokes around a bit more with Pidge before once again retreating to his side of their shared apartment. They go back to their game, but Lance suddenly doesn’t care who wins the next round in Mario Kart. If Pidge and Hunk notice that Lance is more reserved than usual, they don’t comment on it. Lance excuses himself to the bathroom. He pops himself up on the sink and begins a text to Keith: 

 

_ Hey man, thinking about you,  _

 

Too soft. He tries, 

 

_ Hey man, what’s up,  _

 

But that’s a little too random, considering Keith was texting him earlier concerning the details of the latest video going live. 

 

_ Yo!!!!! guess who has two thumbs and kicks ass at mariokart? _

 

….Okay. That’s just lame. Lance slumps back on the bathroom counter, resting his head against the mirror. It’s cold and uncomfortable and one of the faucet’s handles is poking into his side. He wiggles to reposition, phone loose in his hand, and--

 

\--jumps, as the phone vibrates, startling him. He fumbles and the phone slips out of his hand, clattering to the floor. He knocks a bottle of soap off the counter as he scrambles down, the noise echoing off the tile. 

 

“Lance, stop being all emo and breaking stuff!” Pidge’s voice hollers from the next room over.

 

“No, you!” Lance returns, holding his breath as he crouches down and turns his phone over. The screen’s not cracked. Phew. 

 

**From Keith:** [link] would make a cool episode 

 

Lance clicks on the link, giving the location a cursory once over. He deletes the text he was about to send and instead replies: 

 

**To Keith:** when do we leave  

 

*

 

Lance pulls up to Keith’s apartment at ten forty-six in the morning to find Keith already sitting on the curb outside. He snuffs out his cigarette and rises to his feet, hand raised in greeting as Lance gets out of his car. 

 

“Sorry I’m late dude--here, I’ll take take that--” Lance wiggles his fingers at Keith’s duffle bag, taking it from him to put in the trunk of the car, “---traffic was way worse than I thought, and, to be honest, I forgot my camera,  _ my camera _ , like, duh, the whole reason we’re going, so I had to--”

 

“Lance, it’s okay.” Keith smirks at him. “Actually you’re right on time.”

 

“Huh?” Lance gives Keith a confused look over the top of the car before sliding his phone out of his pocket to check the time. “You told me ten-fifteen right?” 

 

Keith gets in the passenger seat, pulling the door shut with a snap. “I wanted to leave by eleven, so I told you ten fifteen, knowing you’d be at least thirty minutes late.” 

 

Lance’s hand stills on the gear shift. “Okay. Rude.” Keith snorts. 

 

Raising one eyebrow over his shades-- huge, silver mirrored monstrosities that cover most of his face, and are, incidentally, fly as hell-- Lance turns to Keith. “Well then, Mr. I Manipulate Time and Space According to My Own Design, you ready to rock-n-roll?” 

 

“If, by rock-n-roll, you mean drive to our destination, then yes, I am ready to rock-n-roll.” Keith fidgets in his seat, the pinched expression of worry on his face at odds with his dry tone. 

 

“Hey man, relax, I’m a great driver.” 

 

Lance is not a great driver. Actually, he is the worst driver ever. Keith tells him as much, voice shrill, hands clinging to the strap of his seatbelt, as Lance crosses three lanes of traffic to barely make their first exit off the turnpike. Keith reiterates this conviction after they stop for lunch and Lance takes to balancing the steering wheel with one knee so that he has both hands free for his McNuggets. 

 

Both hands firmly on the wheel and eyes on the road (Keith has his phone quarantined in the front pocket of his sleeveless sweatshirt after Lance was caught not only texting while driving, but actually updating his snapstory in the middle of the interstate), Lance makes another attempt at conversation. They’ve been in the car for roughly three hours and have another two and a half to go. Keith has given him an abridged history of the site to which they’re en route, but his usual fervor for the ghostly seems absent. The farther they get from home, the quieter Keith gets. It’s making Lance nervous. 

 

After Keith gives one word answers to three questions in a row, Lance reaches for the radio. Flipping through the stations isn’t ideal, but it’s better than dead silence right?

 

“Ah, I love this one!” With a snap, and a seductive slide of his shoulders, Lance gets into it and starts singing along: “---wanna have fun, and get rowdy. Coke and Bicardi, sippin lightly. When I---” 

 

Keith jabs the tuning button and gives Lance a look,  _ really _ ? 

 

Undeterred, Lance starts wailing along with Cutting Crew: “----ust diiiied in your arms tonight, MUSTA BEEN SOMETHIN YOU SAID--” 

 

Keith winces and changes the station. 

 

But Lance has no problems with: “---move from the bed, down to the down to tha--” 

 

His distaste apparent, Keith doesn’t even let him finish the verse, making a face as he flips the channel. But Lance listens to rock too: “----and if you criiiiiiied out for more, if you reached out for me, I would run into the storm, just to keep---” 

 

Keith hits the button again. 

 

“----- Cavernícolaaas, eso fuimos, jugando a diariamente a improvisaaar----”

 

Violently twisting the volume knob to mute, Keith turns to Lance, exasperated. “Okay, is there  _ anything _ you won’t sing along with!?” 

 

“You’re just jealous of my--”

 

“Not even a little bit.” Keith returns without letting Lance finish. 

 

Lance whines, “Well what else am I supposed to do? I’m bored.” 

 

Keith crosses his arms and looks out the window. “I don’t know. How about you concentrate on driving? I’ll just enjoy the scenery or something.” 

 

There’s a line of trees on either side of the highway, but aside from the billboards dotting the side of the road, it’s a fairly monotonous view. 

 

“The scenery huh? Didn’t know you were into that kind of thing, man.” 

 

Keith gives him a confused look before looking up to catch a glimpse of a billboard for a skeevy adult store: ‘The Lion’s Den.’ 

 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

 

Lance’s smirk fades as Keith fails to look even a little bit amused. “Jeez dude, what’s your problem?” 

 

Looking out the passenger seat window, Keith is silent. The mood drops to something heavy and unpleasant. A mile passes in silence. Two. Lance huffs. “Well, this is a great--” 

 

“Can you fuck off for just one minute.” Keith snaps. 

 

Lance blinks.  _ What? _

 

“I’m sorry.” Keith deflates in his seat, slumping down. “Sorry. That wasn’t--I have a temper, but I didn’t---I’m sorry.” 

 

“Okay.” Lance shifts, ready to change the subject, and catches a glimpse of Keith’s hands, folded resolutely in his lap. Like he’s steeling himself. “Seriously Keith, what’s wrong?” 

 

Keith doesn’t answer for a long time. He sits still in the passenger seat. Lance is beginning to think that not changing the subject when he had the chance might have been a mistake. One finger twitches uncomfortably on the wheel. Well, this is awkward. 

 

“I’m shit at this.” Keith says, finally. 

 

Lance hesitates, a wiseass retort on the tip of his tongue. Keith seems to be serious, so he lets him continue uninterrupted. 

 

“My dad was in a car accident...That’s how he died. Why am I telling you this?” Keith shakes his head. “I prefer my bike. Let’s leave it at that.” Keith’s jaw clenches and he looks out the window, resolute. 

 

Lance swallows. There’s nothing he can say in response. Keith hand is clenched on top of his thigh, thumb working over his knuckles. Eyes still on the road, Lance reaches over and puts his hand on top of Keith’s. He turns it over and threads their fingers together, giving his hand a squeeze. 

 

“Your driving is bad enough to scare anyone though.” Keith says, voice a little warbly. He’s still looking out the window. 

 

“Yeah.” Lance agrees, tone soft. He runs his thumb along the edge of Keith’s pointer finger, back and forth. “Sorry about that.” 

 

“Don’t be.” Keith says quietly. He removes his hand from Lance’s. He clears his throat as Lance quickly puts it back on the wheel. Keith takes his phone out of his pocket and checks the gps. “Uh. So. Looks like we missed our exit.” 

 

“What?” Lance squawks. “When?” 

 

Squinting at the mile markers on the road, Keith decides. “Probably right about the time you were getting rowdy with Liam.”

 

“You like that song too!! I knew it! Admit it, Keith!!” Lance crows, shoving Keith’s shoulder. 

 

Keith snorts, shaking his head. The pinched look is nearly gone from his face and he finally meets Lance’s eyes. “How bout you take the next exit and we’ll figure it out from there?” 

 

Lance grins at him. “You got it, boss man.” 

 

*

 

Why does every place Keith take him look like it could be the opening shot of a slasher flick? Lance is about to ask him, but, then again, that’s kind of the point. Still, when Lance pulls up to a shady motel--- a place that’s clearly been the crime scene for at least six murders, and is creepy as hell, from the cracking pastel paint all the way up to one of the lights out in the vacancy sign---he purses his lips. Really, Keith?

 

“You know Keith, ghosts are great and all, but I’d rather sleep with the living.” 

 

“Huh?” Keith gives him a puzzled look as they park the car and head to the desk to check-in. 

 

“Couldn’t we stay at a non-haunted motel? Like, what’s wrong with a Holiday Inn or something?” 

 

Keith frowns at him. “I don’t think this place is home to any paranormal activity. I wasn’t planning on filming here.” 

 

“Oh.” Lance says in mock relief, like that makes him feel  _ sooo _ much better. “So, we’re just here for the ambience. Got it.” 

 

The girl at the front desk, Marissa, is bored out of her mind. Without looking up from the sudoku puzzle book she has balanced on her crossed legs, she slides a clipboard across the counter at them. Her perfectly manicured nails, acrylic’d into stiletto points, click as she fishes a pen out from the cup at the edge of the desk. “Sign in and I’ll get you your keys.” 

 

Two signatures, a couple swipes on an ancient credit card machine, and they are rewarded with two sets of keys. Keith hands Lance one and hikes his duffel up on his shoulder. 

 

“Fuck no, Keith, I refuse.” 

 

Keith looks at the key Lance is holding at arm’s length in front of him. A faded “13” dangles from the fob. 

 

“Really?” Keith regards him with tired acceptance. 

 

“Really.” Lance reiterates, and shoves the set of keys for room thirteen into Keith’s chest. “I’ll be sleeping in the extremely safe and warm room FOURTEEN, thank you very much.” 

 

* 

 

Room Fourteen is  _ not _ safe and warm. 

 

Upon opening the door, there is a weird stain across the threshold. Definitely blood. Someone was probably definitely murdered here. Lance points this out to Keith, who looks at him unimpressed (‘probably just Pepsi or something, Lance, goodnight’), before disappearing into his room for the evening. 

 

Pepsi? Yeah, it’s Pepsi. Lance tells himself this as he sets his bag down on the bed, looking around. He flips on the switch. Two sweet little lamps on either side of the bed illuminate the room nicely…..until the bulb in one of them pops. Lance jumps at the noise and edges away from the side of the room that’s now shrouded in darkness. 

 

Okay. 

 

There’s a long crack in the drywall from the top left corner above the bed. It continues down the wall, behind a painting of the face of a worryingly lifelike man, then back out the other side, disappearing into the dark corner of the room. 

 

Okay. 

 

The bed creaks, although he hasn’t touched it since he set down his bag. 

 

Lance takes a deep breath. 

 

Okay. 

 

He’ll just put on a face mask, no big deal. Turn on some music, clarify his skin, fall asleep, and be ready to spend tomorrow filming with Keith. He takes a step towards the bathroom---just in time to see something  _ rustle _ behind the shower curtain. 

 

Fucking not okay. 

 

Grabbing his stuff, Lance rushes out of the room. He fumbles the door lock--did something just hiss in there,  _ ohmigod _ \--and practically falls down the stairs into the office with the front desk. 

 

“Could I have a different room, please?” He squeaks at Marissa. 

 

She looks down at the keys he’s placed on the desk. Her eyes flutter in irritation, dramatic falsies intensifying the effect. “If you’ve already been in the room, it’s yours for the night. No refunds,” she monotones. 

 

Lance stands up a little straighter. He tries his most charming smile. “Babe, that room is terrifying. My name’s Lance, by the way.” 

 

Marissa reaches under the desk, but rather than pull out a new set of keys, she has a Taco Bell cup. The straw has a telltale lipstick mark on it. She sips. “No refunds, no new rooms.” 

 

“I didn’t touch anything, so please.” Lance leans just a little close to her and lowers his voice to its deepest (and most seductive) register, “What can I do to make you change your mind, babe?” 

 

She motions lazily to the door, cup in hand. “Your friend’s here.” 

 

“Keith!” Lance eeps. 

 

“Lance.” Keith states. “I was going to see if you wanted to get dinner and go over the plan for tomorrow but. You’re busy.” 

 

Lance gapes at him. “No no no no noooo, this is not me picking up girls, Keith.” 

 

Keith goes from irritated to furious. “You--” 

 

“Okay, yeah, Marissa is very cute,” Lance tosses her an apologetic smile, but she’s already returned to sudoku, “My room is legit the setting for the next Stephen King novel, and I cannot sleep there.” 

 

Keith looks at Marissa and back at Lance. “Really?” 

 

“Why don’t you just share a room?” Marissa says, flipping the pages to the end of the book to sneak a look at the answer key. 

 

Lance looks at Keith. Keith looks at Lance. They shrug. 

 

*

 

So. Following a very cruddy fast food dinner (Taco Bell is the  _ only _ thing this town has, apparently), some planning regarding tomorrow’s shoot, and the best Hallmark movie their ancient television set can offer, Lance finds himself laying next to Keith in bed. 

 

It’s not ideal. The bed is small, the blanket is scratchy, and Keith is stiff as a board. Lance shifts. He’s used to time in bed with another person being.....a little more heated. And he definitely can’t think about  _ that _ with Keith next to him. 

 

“Hey Keith.” Lance whispers loudly, though Keith is right next to him. 

 

“Yes?” Keith sounds wide awake. 

 

“Do you think your cats are alright?” 

 

“My what?” 

 

“Cats, you have cats, right?” Lance turns over, props himself up on one elbow to look at Keith. 

 

“That’s what you’re thinking about?” Keith lets out a breath, disbelief in his voice. Lance nods. It’s dim, but he can still see the outline of Keith’s frown in the dark. 

 

“One of my neighbors is going to check on them.” Keith says slowly. “We’re only going to be gone two nights. They’ll be fine.” 

 

“Oh.” Lance lays back down. 

 

“Do you have any pets?” Keith asks, shy.  

 

Lance scoffs, “When you have as many little cousins as me, you don’t need pets.” Keith chuckles and Lance continues. “No, seriously, growing up, my house was a menagerie. Cats, dogs, my older sister Daniela even had a bird at one point.” 

 

Lance starts to talk about his family and feels Keith relax closer to him. He tells him that Dani says giving up that bird was the hardest thing she ever did, including her last year of law school. He launches into a rant about the awful pranks his older brother would play on him as a kid, what it’s like the be the youngest in a family of six, and how his apartment now is so so quiet, comparatively. 

 

Keith breathes out a little sigh, warm at his side. Lance bites at his lip, the goofy contented smile that’s stuck there. Fingers at the edge of the blanket he tilts his head towards Keith. “Hey, did you hear that?” 

 

“Hear what?” Keith looks at him. 

 

In one swift, practiced, motion, Lance pulls the covers over him, trapping Keith inside. 

 

“Lance?  FUCKING HELL, Lance, that smell!” Keith violently pushes Lance off the bed, pulling the blankets off him and dramatically heaving in the fresh air. “You are disgusting.” 

 

Lance is in tears on the floor he’s laughing so hard. “You were totally not expecting it.” 

 

“Who would be, you ass?” Keith runs a hand through his mussed hair. 

 

“My ass,” Lance agrees, moving to crawl back into bed. 

 

“Stay down there!” Keith decides, throwing a pillow at him. 

 

“Nope!” Lance says cheerfully. “I got the demon room, so you’re stuck with me in your bed all night long.” 

 

“Just great.” Keith grumbles, moving over so Lance can lay back down beside him. 

 

*

 

Lance wakes up slowly. Pinned down by a very warm weight, he cracks his eyes open to see a mess of dark hair. Keith is neatly tucked underneath his chin, laying on top of his chest. One of his hands is curled next to Lance’s face. If he turned, just so, he could kiss the inside of Keith’s narrow wrist. Lance flexes his toes, attempting a morning stretch, to find that their legs are tangled together under the blanket. He gives up, relaxing back into the pillow. Keith’s sleepy slow breaths tickle the bare skin of his sternum. 

 

Lance has to go to the bathroom and the arm that’s trapped under Keith is full of pins and needles, but he’ll be damned if he moves and misses one second of this. He closes his eyes, rests his free hand lightly on Keith’s back, and waits for him to wake up. 

 

***

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find it extremely difficult to believe that Lance would have an opportunity to dutch oven anyone and NOT take it. Excuse me. It’s disgusting but Lance would be /so/ be that guy, 1000% there is not a doubt in my mind. 
> 
> I’m the weird kind of human who both writes and reads in silence, so Lance wailing along with the radio is all the playlist you’ll get for this spooky boogey fic. Awful music that Lance sings along to in the car:  
> Pop station: Strip that down - Liam Payne  
> “---wanna have fun, and get rowdy. Coke and Bicardi, sippin lightly. When I---”  
> Mix station: I just died in your arms tonight - Cutting Crew  
> “----ust died in your arms tonight, musta been somethin you saiiid--”  
> Hip Hop: What’s your fantasy - Ludacris  
> “---move from the bed, down to the down to tha--”  
> Rock: Song #3 - Stone Sour  
> “----and if you criiiiiiied out for more, if you reached out for me, I would run into the storm, just to keep---”  
> Spanish station: Cavernicolas - Ricardo Arjona  
> “-----Cavernícolaaas, eso fuimos, jugando a diariamente a improvisaaar----”


	5. The Murder Estate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance and Keith beware, you’re in for a scare.

***

 

Mid-morning light filters through the drawn curtains of room thirteen, soft and hazy. 

 

The sound of voices drifts in from outside, a man and a woman talking at the front desk. They’re not quite loud enough for Lance to make out the details of their conversation, but the woman’s laugh tinkles as they leave the office and head to the parking lot. The snap of car doors slamming shut, gravel underneath tires. The walls of the motel must be thin, but no other sound interrupts the hush that settles back over the room. Lance studies the speckled ceiling, feeling as though he might fall back asleep. The only noises punctuating the quiet are the persistent hum and click of the air conditioner and the soft puffs of Keith’s breaths. 

 

His hair is tickling Lance’s neck. Gingerly, trying to jostle Keith as little as possible, Lance frees his arm from underneath Keith’s sleep heavy body. Keith shifts ever so slightly, tucking his hand that was slung near Lance’s face underneath his chin, fingers curled atop Lance’s chest. He pulls his legs in too, one knee resting on Lance’s thigh, his sock scratchy on Lance’s calf.  _ Socks in bed _ , Lance thinks disapprovingly, flexing his newly freed hand into a fist to get the pins and needles out of it.  _ I like a guy who sleeps with socks on _ . Feeling returned to his hand, he brushes Keith’s hair into place, gently smoothing it down so it’s not so tickly. It’s softer than he expects. 

 

Keith rouses, the tension pulling back into his limbs. One hand scrubs sleepily at his eyes, the other still clinging to Lance’s shoulder. 

 

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Lance apologizes, voice barely above a whisper.  

 

Face burrowed into Lance, Keith shakes his head. “ W’time issit?” he slurs. 

 

Lance shrugs, the motion abbreviated by their posture. “Dunno.” He lifts his hand from Keith’s back to point to the nightstand, just barely out of reach. “My phone’s right there.”  

 

Keith follows the line of his arm, blinking bleary eyed. He tilts his head back to look up at Lance and startles. He sits up abruptly. Lance makes a little ‘oof’ noise as Keith pushes against his chest, practically elbowing him in the face, scrambling off. He’s out of bed and halfway across the room before Lance can say anything else. 

 

“Uh,” Lance sits up crossed legged and arranges the blankets around his waist. Keith is looking intently around the room, at anywhere other than the bed and Lance. His hair is sticking up on one side. The tips of his ears and the back of his neck are flushed a deep pink. “Good morning?” 

 

“Morning,” Keith returns shortly, his sleep-husky voice raspier than usual. Finding his jeans slung over the desk chair where he left them, Keith tugs them on, leaving them unbuttoned as he steps into his boots. He grabs his Marlboro reds from the desk, shoves the pack in his pocket, and runs a hand through his hair (though it does little to help it lay flat). “Be right back,” he mutters, heading out the door. 

 

Lance’s heart is beating too loud and too hard for it to be considered a quiet morning any longer. 

 

Sighing dramatically, he flops over. The cheap motel sheets are warm and smell of Keith--whatever soap he uses, combined with a faint underpinning of musk. “Auuughhhh,” Lance flails. He rolls, literally, out of the bed, almost face planting into the floor----arms windmilling---one, two, three hops----and he manages not to fall. “ _ He sticks the landing, and the crowd goes wild, _ ” he half singsongs under his breath, jaunting over to peek out the door. He pokes his head out and looks in either direction, but Keith is nowhere to be seen. He completely bailed.   

 

Lance slumps against the doorframe. 

 

“Cool, cool, good start to the day.” Shaking his head, Lance retreats, pulling the door shut in defeat. He gathers up his bathroom supplies--body wash and shaving cream, shampoo and conditioner, the various products for his morning skincare routine, et cetera--and sets the shower to as hot as it will go. It’s not a bad shower, all things considered, but he keeps getting distracted; thoughts alternating rapidly between the quiet contentment of a sleepy Keith and a fluttery nervousness for what’s to come. 

 

He emerges from the steam, one dubiously hygienic motel towel wrapped around his waist and a smaller one wrapped turban style around his head, to find Keith has returned.   

 

He sits propped up in the bed, one leg folded underneath him, frowning at a paperback he has balanced in his hand. The other hand hovers a gas station coffee halfway to his lips. He doesn’t look up when Lance comes out of the bathroom, but he does motion to the desk where a matching coffee sits waiting for Lance. 

 

Lance accepts, taking a cautious first sip---he’s seen the amount of sugar Keith dumps into a single cup and it is nothing short of an abomination---to find that it’s exactly perfect. The cautious sip is replaced by a long draught. He closes his eyes, and smacks his lips appreciatively, earning him a disparaging look from Keith. One of Keith’s eyebrows ticks up, like  _ really? _

 

“Sleep well?” Lance says, with what he hopes is a sly smile. 

 

Keith chokes on his $2.19 Arabica blend. “You should’ve woken me up!” 

 

Unwrapping the towel from his head, Lance considers Keith’s sleeping profile: dark eyelashes fanned over his cheeks, mouth slack, blindly nuzzling into Lance’s chest.  _ Not a chance in the world, buddy. _ “Nahhhh.” He finishes toweling off his hair and tosses the smaller towel in the direction of the bathroom.

 

Keith huffs in disagreement, presses his lips together. He doesn’t say anything else, but, pouting, returns to his book. 

 

Lance crosses his legs at the ankles and tries to look casual as he leans against the desk, nursing his coffee. He watches Keith out of the corner of his eye. The pages aren’t turning in that book he’s supposedly reading. He’s definitely not imagining the way Keith’s eyes not-so-subtly follow the line of his legs….up his calf, his knee, his thigh until it dips underneath the towel…..right? 

 

“So,” he says, and Keith jumps. The color has risen in his cheeks again. “What’s the plan, man?”

 

Keith dog-ears the page he’s on and sets the book on the nightstand. He clears his throat. He addresses the wall, rather than Lance, “We get ready to go. The estate owner is going to meet us around one to let us into the property.” 

 

“Well then, better get a move on, Keithy. I’m practically ready to walk out the door, and here you are lounging in bed.” Lance stretches long arms over his head. “Chop chop, man.” 

 

Keith rolls his eyes and finishes off his cup before grabbing his stuff from his duffle. “I have a feeling that we won’t be waiting on me.” 

 

“Can’t rush perfection,” Lance responds cheerily, unscrewing the cap on a jar of hair pomade. He turns to do his hair. He spies Keith watching him in the mirror’s reflection, and gives him a wink. 

 

Keith snorts and firmly pulls the bathroom door shut with a click. 

 

Lance is delighted to find that, while Keith does not sing in the shower, he does mutter to himself, cross sounding little murmurs that continue even after the water is turned off. The shower he takes is preposterously short; he’s already exiting the bathroom, fully clothed, in just the time it takes Lance to finish styling his hair. 

 

“Shit, you’re fast, sorry Keith, almost done, just gotta--” Lance bustles around the room, his clothes somehow already scattered, despite their checking in just the previous afternoon. 

 

“Can’t rush perfection,” Keith shrugs. Lance stops, tee shirt in hand, and stares at him open mouthed. Keith raises his eyebrows innocently.  Lance closes his mouth. 

 

Shaking his head at Keith for the second time that morning, Lance doesn’t bother to hide his smile. “That’s right,” he says. “Obviously. Glad you’re on board.” 

 

Keith slouches back into the bed, content to return to his book as Lance fiddles around the motel room, putting the finishing touches on his look for the day. 

 

Finally both ready, they grab their cameras, something to eat and drive to their next haunt. 

 

*

 

The distance from their motel to the purportedly haunted destination is short. Still, as they take a private road (DEAD END, reads the sign, NO TRESPASSERS), deep into a thickly wooded area, it seems to Lance that they are far away, far far away, from any place he’d like to be. 

 

It’s the tail end of summer: nightfall is beginning to creep up ever earlier, but the crisp of fall is not yet in the air; most of the trees should still be green. On their long drive yesterday, just a few splotches of red and orange interrupted the wall of green on either side of the highway. Here, however, the trees look as if they have failed to bloom at all. The leaves are not any shade of green, nor are they the rich hues of autumn, but rather a sickly, dry yellow. They remind Lance of when Hunk went through his short-lived gardening phase, doggedly killing plant after plant (Brilliant as he is, Hunk does  _ not _ have a green thumb. The poor little pots of basil and thyme and rosemary never stood a chance). 

 

The private road widens slightly, enough for two cars---or perhaps for one car to turn around and never return---and ends. A tall, wrought iron gate blocks any further progress. The spikes on top of the gate, and on the unscalable fence on either side, point up into an overcast sky. Lance stops the car, shifts to park underneath the looming gate. A dark sedan is pulled off on the other side of the side of the road. A squat, balding man hastens out of the driver’s seat.  

 

“Keith?” he asks, as Lance opens the door. The man seems flighty, nervous eyes flicking between them and the gate. Lance shakes his head and is about to respond, but Keith cuts in. 

 

“I’m Keith.” Keith gets out to greet him, but the man doesn’t respond to his proffered handshake. 

 

“Do you remember what I told you?” The man pulls out a set of keys. He flips through them one by one as if they are unfamiliar to him. 

 

“One p.m. tomorrow.” Keith nods. 

 

The man edges towards the gate. He lifts the padlock and, hands slightly shaking, turns the key. “One p.m. tomorrow. I’ll be locking this back up.” He directs his gaze to Lance. “It doesn’t matter….if your car is still here….One p.m. If you’re not out by one p.m. tomorrow….” he trails off. 

 

“We understand.” Keith nods. 

 

“I hope you do.” The man looks between them. He opens his mouth as if he might say something else, but decides against it. He gives them a nod, gets back in the car, and, without another glance, drives away.  

 

“Okay so he was fun.” Lance babbles at Keith, feeling a little giddy. “ _ If you’re not out by one p.m _ … _.I hope you do _ ...bet he’s a laugh at parties.” Lance moves to get back into the car, “Let’s get this ghost hunt started!” 

 

“Uh. Actually.” Keith stops him. “We should leave the car out here.” 

 

“Huh?” 

 

Keith slings his trusty bag over his shoulder, checks his camera for the upteenth time. “If we drive any further, it probably won’t start when we want to leave.” 

 

Lance gapes at him. 

 

“Reports say that car batteries are almost always dead after visiting The Milford House.” Keith shrugs. “I brought extra batteries for my cameras, but our phones probably won’t last long either.” 

 

Lance swallows and takes another look at the gate. As dead as all the surrounding woods are, the foliage is too thick to see more than a few yards beyond the entrance. Lance squints at the lettering that lines the arch of the iron gate: 

  
  
  


[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/139052022@N03/38196137405/)

“THE MURDER ESTATE?! Keith,” Lance’s voice comes out shrill as he waves his arm at the gate outraged. “Keith,” 

 

“The Milford Estate, Lance.” Keith glances up at the decrepit entryway. “See? It’s just that the ‘D’ is missing.” 

 

A more perfect opportunity to make a joke about “giving the D” has never presented itself, and yet, Lance is so nervous, he doesn’t take it. He looks warily up at the lettering and sighs. Keith probably wouldn’t have gotten it anyways. 

 

“Ready?” Keith asks him, flipping his camera on. “Help me focus this and we’ll do the introduction here, in front of the gate.” 

 

Lance gets in frame, leaning close to Keith as he begins: “Welcome back to my channel. Tonight, we’re staying at a place I’ve been wanting to visit since I started making these videos.” Keith smiles into the camera, and then up at Lance standing next to him. “The Milford House.” 

 

Keith rattles off some of the basic history of the house, a late nineteenth century tudor-gothic style mansion. It was custom built by the obscenely wealthy Stephen Milford as a wedding present for his young bride, Victoria. 

 

“As you might guess,” Keith continues, “their story does not have a happy ending.” 

 

Lance makes a face of mock surprise into the camera, eyes wide, brows shooting up into his hairline. Keith elbows him. 

 

“Ready?” Keith picks up his camera, flipping it around to film the walk to the house. The gate swings open, the heavy iron surprisingly facile, and ushers them inside.  

 

Lance double checks to make sure he’s recording as well and follows Keith in, “Right behind you, man.” 

 

*

 

Keith continues detailing the estate’s history as they make their way towards the house. From the beginnings of the house’s construction to the time the Milfords were married, it’s a gruesome tale. Stephen Milford acquired the estate through what was essentially blood money: the abrupt death of his estranged uncle happened under mysterious circumstances and left him the land. Many believe his uncle’s death was not accidental, and his will was altered for Stephen’s gain. 

 

Not only that, but, in the rush to complete the construction of house according to his ridiculous timetable, conditions of the workers building the mansion were grotesquely inhumane. No fewer than six men died before the house was complete. 

 

Apart from Keith’s voice, there’s a distinct lack of sound in the woods. Certainly no other people, no cars passing by, no birds overhead. Even the tap of their footsteps seem to be swallowed up by the silence. But unlike the hush of the morning’s calm in the motel room, this quiet is ominous. Lance stays within arm’s length of Keith. They aren’t even to the house yet, but the prospect of being alone here is terrifying. 

 

He’s so close behind, in fact, that he trips over Keith as the other abruptly stops. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, one hand resting on Keith’s shoulders, reluctant to let go. 

 

“Look,” Keith breathes. 

 

Lance pans the camera over to where Keith is directing….but Keith is already making his way through the underbrush. There’s a clearing, what must have once been a garden. A stone statue, larger than life, keeps a motionless watch over a long dormant fountain. “Keith, I don’t think….” Lance starts, but gives up before he finishes the thought, following him. 

 

The statue is huge, a robed figure with massive wings outspread, casting a shadow over the tepid pool they are stationed above. “An angel? That’s nice.” Lance tries to capture how large the figure is, backing up to get Keith in frame too. 

 

“Not an angel. Look closer.” A thin forked tail snakes from behind the figure to a curl around its legs. Stubs of horns, worn off by time, dot either side of the forehead. Empty eyes survey them from above. 

 

Keith continues his log, “Not long after their marriage, Stephen Milford became ill.” 

 

Victoria Milford suffered during those first few years of marriage. Her husband’s cruelty towards the workers extended into his personal life. He was a religious zealot, imposing his arduous disciplines on those around him. 

 

“Rumors suggest that Victoria asked a demon to take the life of her husband. Others believe she merely cited a demon and killed him herself. Whatever the case may be, this statue was installed the year following his death.” 

 

It’s nearly three in the afternoon, it should be the hottest part of the afternoon, but Lance swears he feels a chill cut through the air at Keith’s words. 

 

Keith flips the camera around to face him. “Supposedly she had an obsession with demons after that, so I hope we find evidence of that in the house too.” 

 

Lance flips his own camera around, “I don’t. I really fucking  _ don’t _ hope that.” He makes a face of revulsion into the lens. 

 

Keith smirks. “You ready to keep going?” 

 

“I was born ready.” Lance stalks off to the path, feeling none of the confidence he’s used to projecting. He keeps glancing back to make sure Keith is close behind him. Keith gives him an encouraging nod and Lance motions for him to come closer. The path is narrow, but they fall into step side-by-side, and Lance breaths easier, for the moment. 

 

And then the woods clear, revealing the Milford House. 

 

*

 

If the motel was like something out of a slasher flick, The Milford House would be a period piece, complete with possessed little children and servants that turn out to be ghosts. That’s what Lance thinks when he first lays eyes on the mansion. Row upon row of dark windows line the face of the building. There’s no one inside--- how could there be--- but it feels as though someone, or  _ something _ , is watching him from one of those windows. Apprehension creeps up Lance’s spine. He fights an irrational urge to run back to the car and drive as fast and as far as he can. 

 

Meanwhile, Keith is practically vibrating out of his skin with excitement. “The lighting is perfect,” he says, under his breath, panning up to capture the slate gray roof against a slate gray sky.  

 

“It looks like it might storm,” Lance says, quiet. He does his best to capture the entirety of the house on film, from the tips of blackened chimneys to the two stone lions guarding either side of the front entrance. “This place is creepy as fuck.” 

 

Keith grins at him. It’s his ‘too excited to filter anything’ smile. The one that lights up his eyes and showcases his dimple and reveals his slightly crooked tooth. The expression that makes Lance’s heart revolt against its standard rhythm. The smile that now ranks in Lance’s favorite things in the whole world, right up there with lazy summer days spent at Varadero beach and his mother’s inexplicable sense of humor. 

 

“Well, Keith,” Lance announces, feeling slightly punch-drunk, like the ridiculous tumult of emotion swirling in his chest might just tumble out of his mouth. “Shall we?” 

 

Keith inhales a deep breath. He nods. Together, they approach the door. 

 

No crowbars are necessary to enter The Milford House. With a turn of the handle, Keith pushes the thick wooden door. Like the gate, it opens easily, as if compelling them inside. 

 

“Holy shit,” Lance breathes. 

 

It’s not what he expected....the interior is beautiful. The ceiling in the foyer is high. A staircase curves luxuriously upwards. Either side of the room leads to darkened halls that seem to stretch on forever.  

 

The Milford House has been abandoned for far longer than any of the places they’ve visited so far, but the entry hall is nothing like the disrepair of the laundromat or the disgusting decay of the movie theater. It seems as though its owners stepped out just a few moments ago. From the gilt ceilings to the polished tile floors, the building still screams of opulence. 

 

“It won’t all be this nice,” Keith warns. He tells his camera, and Lance, about the demise of Victoria Milford. 

 

Following the death of her husband, the widow Milford withdrew from society. Whether from her own desire or because she was spurned, years went by and she was largely forgotten. Her last years were spent in what must have been almost oppressive isolation. That is, until, the house burned down. A great fire, cruel and crushing and rapid overtook the entire east side of the mansion. Victoria Milford and all her remaining servants did not escape. 

 

Tip tap. Tip tap. Tip tap. 

 

Lance grabs Keith’s arm and he stops talking to listen. The sound of footsteps. 

 

Tip tap. Tip tap. Tip tap tip tap tiptapti---

 

They stop. 

 

Lance holds his breath. Keith is doing the same. He’s looking toward the side, brow furrowed, trying to hear where the steps might be coming from. He senses Lance watching him and meets his eyes. They both exhale. Lance lets out a nervous laugh, releases Keith’s arm, and is about to say something when Keith glances to the door behind them and a troubled expression crosses his face. 

 

Lance turns, following his gaze. The door is shut. 

 

“Keith. Buddy. Didn’t we,” his voice shakes, “I mean, I’m pretty sure...We left that door open? Didn’t we?” 

 

Tiptaptiptaptiptaptiptap.

 

Lance lets out a little yelp and focuses on steadying his camera in his shaking hands. (If he also edges behind Keith, that’s purely incidental). 

 

Keith flips his camera around to talk into the lens. “She knows we’re here.” 

 

“Who knows? Keith. Who knows? Victoria Mil--”

 

A bang overhead. Lance jumps. 

 

“Fuck this Keith, I’m not-- we have to--” he turns to the door. Outside, it starts to pour. 

 

Steeling himself, Lance grabs the handle. “If you think a little rain is going to stop Lance McClain---” he wrenches the door open--- just in time to see lightning crack across the sky, illuminating the barren woods surrounding them. The thunder that follows shakes the house. 

 

Lance takes two steps back into the house, away from the entryway. It suddenly feels like the temperature has dropped significantly.

 

Keith sets up his camera to face the door. “Can you do that again?” he asks. 

 

“Oh sure, let’s talk to it--her--let’s ask if she can make the terrifying thing happen again, good idea, great plan.” Lance snarks, moving to stand next to Keith. 

 

Nothing happens. 

 

“We came to visit you, Victoria,” Keith pauses. “This tall guy here is pretty loud---”

 

“Excuse me?” Lance cuts in. 

 

“---but I promise he’s harmless. Do you want us to leave?” 

 

The door swings shut. 

 

“Fuuuuu---” Lance sinks to the floor. 

 

Keith grins. “This is going to be such a good video.” 

 

The house quiets. Outside the rain falls in sheets, battering the roof, the windows, but for the moment, the house is still. The temperature no longer feels icy. Lance slumps into a sprawl over the floor. He listens as Keith asks more questions to the air, but nothing else responds. 

 

“Are you gonna stay down there all night?” 

 

Lance frowns, his eyes closed. “Shhh, Keith, I’m thinking.” He opens his eyes to see Keith peering down at him, worried. “Relax man, this is my idea pose.” 

 

“You are so weird.” Keith squats down beside Lance. “What kind of ideas?” 

 

“Do you have floor plans for this place? Or like, a general layout of the house?” 

 

Keith nods. He settles across from Lance on the floor and tugs his trusty notebook from his bag. He flips it open and hands it to Lance. Lance studies the drawings detailed there. Keith’s handwriting is small and loopier than he would have thought, but easily legible.  

 

“What do the little stars mean?” 

 

Keith scoots up closer to him and squints at the page. With the rain, it’s almost dark enough to warrant a flashlight. “The stars are areas that are supposed to have high activity, where I’d like to film.” 

 

Lance shifts the notebook so that it’s more in between them. “And all these X’s?” 

“Some parts of the house aren’t safe because of the fire.” 

 

They work out a plan. Besides the thermal camera, they have their two vlogging cameras and also a spare. Lance proposes a set up in which one of the long hallways is filmed with a stationary camera while the two of them explore. There’s so many rooms that Keith wants to film in: the kitchen, the master bedroom, the study….even a little greenhouse. 

 

“Well Keith, we better get crack-a-lackin’.”  Lance hoists himself up to his feet and offers him a hand. It’s going to be a long night. 

 

*

 

The rain continues overhead as they make their way up the grand staircase into the main wing with the bedrooms. 

 

Lance babbles into his camera, still shaken from their film session in the study. 

 

Big leather chairs, walls lined with bookshelves, ornate stained glass windows, it was a charming room, but…...Nearly as soon as Keith had started asking questions, the books had begun quivering, restless on the shelves. Lance let loose a string of expletives and that was it----book after book, whipped off shelves, shooting out across the room. Lance dropped to his knees, taking cover, trying to avoid the cloud of dust that rose from the commotion. Keith doubled over, choking out a cough. 

 

Lance pulled his tee shirt over his mouth. Scaring the shit out of him is one thing, but assaulting him with the written word then suffocating him with dust is quite another. 

 

“Rude!!” He ducked as an almanac flew past his head. “Hey Vicky---see how you like it!” He picked up a novel and flung it at the wall. 

 

Every movement in the room came grounding to a halt. A huge dictionary hanging in midair dropped to the floor, narrowly missing Keith. 

 

“Sorry….?” Lance tried, hesitantly.

 

A slam on one of the desks in the corner of the room made them both jump. When they went to investigate, they found a handprint---clear as day---marked in the dust. 

 

So. 

 

He’s a little freaked out. Okay. A lot freaked out. 

 

The only thing keeping him sane is the look on Keith’s face as he replayed the footage. He was thrilled. He’s giving his camera a play-by-play now as they walk to the master bedroom. “The print was smaller than either of our hands,” Keith informs the camera as they reach the top of the stairs. 

 

The hall seems to stretch on forever. Rows of doors loom on either side. 

 

Most of them are cracked open. 

 

“ **_.....lance….._ ** ”

 

Lance thinks he hears a whisper. 

 

“Keith?” Lance doesn’t take his eyes off the hallway, “Did you just say something?” 

 

Silence. 

 

Lance turns around. He’s alone. 

 

“Keith!!” Lance takes a step backwards, eyeing the stairway they just ascended. Keith was in front of him, he was  _ just _ here, what the everloving  _ fuck _ . 

 

He sets his camera down, Jesus Christ, he feels like shouldn’t take his eyes off the hallway--why?? Fumbling hands try to get his phone out of his pocket. He swipes the screen, but it’s dead. 

 

Something hisses. 

 

It doesn’t sound like his name anymore. It doesn’t sound like his name, but

 

It sounds close. 

 

“Keith?” Lance tries again. His voice comes out small. One of the doors down the hall creeeaaaaks wider. 

 

“No! No no no nononono----this is  _ not _ happening!” Lance scoops up his camera and takes off in the opposite direction. A full on sprint. 

 

“Keith, I swear to god, you better be onto some actual ‘The Conjuring’ level shit to leave me alone here, you asshole!” Lance hollers as he makes his way down the hall. 

 

He runs and runs, turning corners, ducking out of dead ends, passing endless rooms, until he can’t run any longer. He huffs to a stop, adrenaline still coursing through him, and bends over to catch his breath. Fuck Keith and fuck ghosts and fuck this house in particular. 

 

No sooner does he straighten up than Keith, also running for his life, it seems, comes crashing around the corner, slamming him to the ground. 

 

“What the hell, Lance!” Keith growls. Lance tries to get up and Keith shoves him back down. “You think this is funny?” 

 

“Yeah, it’s a great joke, Keith, leaving me all alone, what the fuck man,” Lance rages back, but he stops. Keith is trembling. It’s barely noticeable, just a slight tremor in his fist, the set of his jaw, but. “What happened?” Lance asks, yielding. He frees one of his hands from Keith’s grasp and slides it under his bangs, as if to check if he’s feverish. He’s clammy and cranky but Lance has never been happier to see him.  

 

Keith looks at him, eyes hard. “What happened? You said my name and then told me to follow you, so one second I was behind you and the next second you were gone! You left me!” 

 

“I didn’t!!!” Lance pleads, dropping his hand. “Okay this sounds crazy, but dude, that wasn’t me!” 

 

Lance tries to get up again; this time Keith lets him. He settles down next to Lance as they sit, shoulder-to-shoulder, backs against the wall. “I didn’t say that!” Lance repeats. 

 

“So what actually happened then?” Keith says, crossing his arms. With a toss of his head, he flicks his bangs back into place from where Lance mussed them. 

 

“I heard a whisper and I turned around and you were gone,” Lance says, slowly. The idea of being manipulated so easily is unnerving. He shivers. “Shit, Vicky got us good.” 

 

Keith nods. “Real good.” He hesitates. “Sorry for tackling you.” 

 

Lance shrugs, “It happens.” He taps a finger against his lips and then continues, “Well, actually, it doesn’t usually happen but, given the circumstances, what can ya do?” 

 

Keith looks down into his lap, poorly concealing a smile. 

 

“No but for real,” Lance shoves his shoulder into Keith playfully, “You’re just lucky I was caught off guard.” He lifts his arm and flexes, “You do not want to be on the receiving end of these guns.” 

 

Snorting, Keith rummages around in his bag. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

 

“What are you doing?” 

 

“Recharge,” Keith says, serious. He hands Lance a bottle of water and opens up a bag of trailmix. 

 

“Keith,” Lance marvels, “You’re like a soccer mom. So prepared! A crowbar wielding, black jeans loving, ghost hunting soccer mom!” 

 

Keith peers into the bag of trailmix with his flashlight, already picking out the chocolate pieces. “There are worse things to be.” 

 

Time passes quietly while they rest. 

 

Lance could almost fall asleep. Keith is so warm compared to the house, which seems to grow more frigid with each passing hour. The rain outside is soothing and regular. He feels his eyelids grow heavy, lulled to relaxation by the steady rain and the familiar sound of a clock ticking. 

 

Wait. 

 

He jostles Keith next to him. “Keith? Wake up.” 

 

Keith starts, lifting his head. “What?”

 

“Do you hear that?” Lance stands up. Suddenly it feels like falling asleep here is a bad idea. A very bad idea. “Listen. It’s a clock.” 

 

Keith is at his feet, next to Lance. His eyes are wide in the darkness. “Where is it coming from?” 

 

The master bedroom. 

 

As they make their way down the hall, consulting Keith’s floor plans, it seems that the sound must be originating from the master bedroom. It grows louder, more insistent, more threatening, with every step they take. 

 

“This is it,” Keith says, before they enter. “We’ll do an EVP session in here, and I’ll set up the thermal cam to see if anything physical manifests. You ready?” 

 

Lance nods, steeling himself for the worst. Keith reaches for the doorknob, and----

 

The door swings shut. 

 

“Um.” Keith grapples with the handle, but the door won’t open. He presses his whole weight against the door. No luck. He kicks the bottom of the door, more out of spite than anything else. It doesn’t budge. 

 

Lance scratches the back of his head. “Well…” He looks at Keith and shrugs. “We could just do it in another bedroom. This place has like a million of em.” 

 

Every door in the hallway swings shut simultaneously. 

 

Lance feels like he might cry, his heart is in his throat. He swallows. “G-getting real tired of your sh-shit, Vicky.” 

 

Keith scowls. “We’ll move on to somewhere else.” 

 

They go back downstairs, this time through the servant’s quarters, creepy little rooms, barren as prison cells, compared to what they’ve seen of the rest of the house.

 

The late Victoria Milford must not deign to follow them there, as neither their eyes nor their equipment picks up anything out of the ordinary. Just old, sad rooms. The atmosphere is heavy. Lance is glad when they reach the main part of the house again. They’ve almost looped back to where they began, the entryway. He leans forward, looking beyond Keith, into the east side of the mansion. “Hey man, what’s down this hallway over here?” 

 

*

 

A ballroom. The room is split in half: one side a lavish dance hall, dripping in gold and crystal, the other, a stark reminder of the tragedy that took the house. Streaks of ash crossing the ceiling tell the story of flames licking inwards, ready to devour. It gives the illusion that an inky black darkness is edging into the room. Lance shudders. He flicks his flashlight over the expanse of the room, peering in from the doorway. 

 

A staircase sweeps down either side of the room and comes together in the middle. Guests would have been ushered in from the upstairs rooms into the ballroom. There’s a short bar towards one side, the side undamaged by the fire. The opposite side of the room is blackened, skeletal remains. The fire-destroyed part of the room is littered in broken glass and crystal, but the walls on the undamaged side are still mirrored. Lance strides in, waving to himself in the mirrors for the benefit of the camera. Keith follows him more slowly, eyes on the crystal chandeliers above. 

 

Even with half of the room destroyed, the ballroom is still beautiful. Polished floors, ivory and black, gold gilt ceilings, rich red carpet running up what remains of the stairs. Lance whistles. The sound echoes. 

 

Keith nods. His flashlight moves over the crystals above, sending little prisms of light over the ceiling and walls. It looks like stars. Lance watches the expressions that cross Keith face as he walks through the room, solemn eyes reflecting ever changing constellations.  _ This is the best part _ , he thinks. 

 

After a moment, Keith realizes Lance has stopped and turns to him. “What is it?” 

 

A few tall tables line the wall near the bar. Lance sets his camera down on one of these. He wiggles his fingers at Keith, delicately plucking the flashlight and EVP recorder from his hands when he approaches. He sets Keith’s camera equipment next to his own, and tugs his bag down to the floor. “What are you doing,” Keith asks. Unburdened, he twists, stretching his back, and looks at Lance expectantly, confusion pulling his brows together ever so slightly. 

 

“Dancing,” Lance responds, because  _ duh _ , “May I?” He lifts Keith’s hand from his side, winking coquettishly as he knits his fingers with Keith’s. Keith’s look of confusion deepens as Lance places his other hand on the small of his back, so that Keith is holding him. Keith exhales a noise of disbelief as Lance guides them more towards the middle of the glossy dancefloor. 

 

Keith is stiff, but he doesn’t pull away. Lance takes heart in this and rocks them into a gentle sway. The hand that’s not holding Keith’s finds a place on Keith’s shoulder, tucking them together perfectly, chest to chest. There’s no music, of course, but Lance lets out a small hum of contentment, eyes closed, in Keith’s arms. 

 

“Is this--” Keith begins, but Lance startles, Keith’s voice is so close to his ear. Keith tightens his grip on Lance in response, a firm pressure on the small of his back. And,  _ shit, that shouldn’t feel as good as it does _ ….

 

“Warn a guy next time, would ya?” Lance huffs, quiet, instinctively leaning in to the touch. His head is bowed, nose nestled close to Keith’s neck. “Is this-- what?”

 

“Is this it?” 

 

Lance stops their slow dance and pulls back to look at Keith. “Excuse me?” 

 

Keith blinks rapidly, “No, I meant---” 

 

But Lance is already ranting. “Okay Mr. I’m Not Impressed Unless You Are Violent or Dead or Both,” 

 

Keith opens his mouth to retort--

 

“Let’s see if you can handle  _ this _ .” 

 

Without any further warning, Lance sweeps them into a chaotic waltz. Keith falters at first---he isn’t  _ that _ much shorter, but Lance definitely has longer legs---but soon falls into step with Lance’s haphazard rhythm. 

 

True, the ballroom was engineered for many couples to dance all at once, but Lance, ever enthusiastic, is determined to use the whole space. Keith laughs against his chest as he whirls them around indiscriminately. They spin and cavort around the room, tripping over each other and pulling each other up, sliding perfectly back into each other’s arms every time. Lance twirls himself into a dip. 

 

“Impressive,” Keith comments, half out of breath. His hand is steady on Lance’s hip. 

 

Lance raises his brows suggestively, and responds by rolling his hips into a grind. He gets closer to Keith, eyes hooded, as he draws their bodies together. “Now  _ that’s _ it.” he whispers against Keith’s ear. 

 

Lance feels Keith’s laugh rumble through his chest. 

 

“You are so…” 

 

Lance rests his cheek against Keith’s hair. “I know, I know, I know. Moronic. Weird. Ridiculous.” He holds Keith tight, not knowing how much longer he’ll be able to. 

 

Keith raises his head from Lance’s shoulder to look up at him. “I was going to say ‘ _ devilishly handsome _ ,’ but.” He shrugs. 

 

“Huh?” Lance leans back to look at Keith. Their abandoned flashlights only illuminate the large room so much, but he could swear that Keith is flushed. His mouth is pulled into a soft pout like he’s a little embarrassed and cross about it. He meets Lance’s eyes. 

 

“I mean, yeah,” Lance starts---but loses track of the thought as he feels the warmth of Keith’s breath on his lips. 

 

Keith kisses him. Just a chaste press of lips, hesitant on his, but it sweeps the air from his lungs. Lance inhales sharply, and maybe Keith mistakes it for something negative because Lance feels him tense, but Lance doesn’t give him time to believe it. He tilts his head, takes Keith’s mouth in his once more. Keith opens for him, mouth parting willingly, at the same time his fingers shake off Lance’s hand to rest heavy on the back of his neck.  

 

Keith kisses like something hungry. Like he’s searching for something he’s desperate to find. It’s intoxicating. Lance shifts and Keith comes with him, refusing to part, tugging at his bottom lip. It doesn’t feel like playful making out, or the casual, purely physical hookups Lance has had. This is fierce and forceful but it’s underpinned with something delicate, something Lance is scared to startle, for fear that what has opened to him will be slammed shut once more. His heart aches at the thought of it. 

 

“Keith,” he breathes as he pulls away. Keith looks at him, eyes smouldering against the deep dark of the room. His lips are wet. Lance thumbs over them, a pointless gesture, as he’s leaning in to wet them once more--- 

 

Keith jerks away. 

 

Lance goes stock still, the world crashing down around him. “I--” he stutters, but Keith squeezes his arm, a grip that’s tight enough to leave bruises. He’s looking over Lance’s shoulder. Lance stops. 

 

He turns. 

 

There is a figure at the top of the stairs. 

 

Lance feels his blood run cold. The hair at the back of his neck stands up. She’s looking right at him. 

 

Or rather, the woman seems to be looking past them. She’s hazy, like she’s fuzzy around the edges--- _ etéreo _ , Lance’s brain supplies unhelpfully, that’s the word he needs---but she’s definitely there. 

 

She’s not all in white, like in the movies, but the colors of her skin, her clothes, her hair, seem faded, desaturated, like a photo filter has been placed over her. She could be young, he supposes, but her hair is pulled back and she has high cheekbones, deep set eyes, making her appear severe. She gazes in their direction for a moment longer, then turns to walk away. Lance  _ swears _ he hears the swish of her skirts as she turns. She takes two steps away, towards the blackened hall leading away from the ballroom, and fades from sight. 

 

“.....” 

 

Lance lets out the breath he’s been holding. Beside him, Keith is staring at the spot where she was---the ghost, was---his hand clenched into a fist. The other hand still has Lance’s arm caught in a death grip. 

 

“Keith.” Keith takes a step forward, dropping Lance’s arm. “Keith!” 

 

“......did you see her?” his voice is quiet. Lance swallows, nodding, but Keith isn’t looking at him. “She was right there,” Keith says, slowly, his voice still low. He looks at Lance. His face is shining with excitement. “She was right there!!” 

 

He lurches forward, then remembers his camera and stumbles backwards, clumsy in a way that Keith never is. He grabs it, and tugs at Lance’s hand. “C’mon!!” 

 

“Keith. This is not a good idea! Keith!” Lance follows after him, doing his best to avoid debris as Keith makes his way towards the damaged staircase. But Keith is three paces ahead of him, careening up towards the landing. 

 

“She was right here,” Keith repeats, as Lance joins him. Behind Keith, he looks down to where they were standing, eyeing the decaying wood of the railing with unease. 

 

Something pops and Keith whips around towards the sound. He takes a step. The pop turns into a crack. Not good. Lance darts forward, pulling Keith backwards just as the landing gives way, brittle wood falling to the floor below. 

 

“You can thank my ninja-like reflexes for your life,” Lance grins, heart beating wildly. Keith sits up, halfway in his lap. He’s working out a response, he can take his time, Lance doesn’t mind, when there’s movement above them. 

 

“Uh oh.” Lance barely gets out. It’s not a crack anymore, it’s deafening. The building howls as something overhead gives way. Lance moves before he thinks----he rolls, pushing Keith off him, towards the stairs---but it’s not quite enough. 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just one more chapter left!!!


	6. If You're Scared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We gotta get these boys out of this awful house (and then together).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the people who read this and left comments and kudos (I love you!!), but ESPECIALLY thank you to the people who wrote comments on every single chapter, I am so so grateful for you!!! It’s a huge deal to me! I hope that you enjoy the final chapter!!

***

 

The panic in Keith’s voice registers before the pain. “L-Lance!! Lance!!” 

 

Lance’s eyes snap open, white hot pain searing his thigh, his own breath ragged in his ears. Clutching at the ground around him, his eyes are wide, straining to see. 

 

It’s too dark. 

The sound of rain is louder now. The steady beat of the storm has been replaced by an angry rush of water pouring in from the damaged roof. Rapidly soaking the carpet on the landing and stairs, the rain cascades onto the tile of the ballroom’s floor below. 

 

“Keith? Where are you?” Lance doesn’t know where his flashlight is, can’t orient himself well enough to remember where he last had it. It’s too dark.  “A-are you okay?” 

 

Keith’s voice cracks when he responds. “I’m here. I’m fine. But something fell. When you moved out of the way----you….you’re hurt.” He moves to crouch over Lance at the top of the stairs. Lance is thankful when he can make out his familiar profile…..Not enough to really see him clearly, but at least Keith is a tangible body in room full of shadows. He swears and Lance hears him throw something in frustration. “Our flashlights are dead.” 

 

Lance shifts, trying to sit up, and the pain shoots up his right leg. “Fuck.” 

 

Keith’s words register.  _ ‘You’re hurt. Something fell. _ ’ His eyes squeeze shut against the dark as he tries to remember, deciphering the previous moments as best he can. The ceiling giving way. The sound of a crack, the building collapsing, the rain roaring in. He rolled, just narrowly missing being crushed. He pushed Keith off him, out of the way, but with debris covering the landing, his leg was caught on something sharp. The pain….His fingers flutter around the source, afraid of what he’ll find. Blood, there’s definitely blood. His jeans are ripped. There’s glass. A long cut. It seems deep. “I’m, uh,---” he hisses in pain as Keith leans over him, tentative, also trying to assess the wound. 

 

Keith swears again as he pulls back, apologizing hastily under his breath. The edge of panic in his voice is absolutely unmistakable. “Lance, we have to---I need to---your leg---”

 

“Hey.” Lance throws out an arm in Keith’s general direction--- the actual _ last _ thing he needs while he bleeds out in a haunted mansion is for Keith---unwavering, unflappable, badass Keith--- to have some kind of meltdown---he’s going for a soothing shoulder tap…. but ends up clocking Keith square on the nose. The back of his hand meets soft cartilage with a resounding  _ thawp _ and a startled expletive from Keith.  

 

“Whoops, sorry buddy. Totally not intentional.” 

 

Something about this must strike Keith as absurd because he chokes out a sob of a laugh, “Shit, Lance!” clutching the bridge of his nose. 

 

Yeah, that’s better. Even a laugh like that is better than the distressed Keith he was dealing with a second ago. Lance’s voice is shaky, but he does his best to steady it as he gives direction. “Here,” he fumbles his way down Keith’s neck in the dark, hand trailing down the length of his arm. “I’m gonna need you to help me up.” 

 

“Okay.” Keith bends towards him, hooking an arm around his back, slinging one of Lance’s arms across his shoulders. “Tell me when,” he says. Lance can feel how tense he is, muscles pulled taut.  

 

Suppliant, Lance looks heavenward. “Why do I know that this is gonna hurt like a bitch?” He grits his teeth and puts his weight onto the uninjured leg, leans heavily against Keith. “ _ Now. _ ” 

 

Keith heaves him to his feet. Lance clutches against him, failing miserably at holding back a yelp of pain. But at least he’s upright again. He feels dizzy. The room is so dark, he’s disoriented, he sways, using Keith as an anchor. Keith holds on to him, basically keeping his legs from buckling under him entirely. 

 

“Hahaha oh maaan,” Lance wheezes. “Not good, Keith, this is  _ not _ good.” 

 

“Take a m-minute.” Keith says, but his voice isn’t as sure as his words. His fingers dig into Lance’s side. 

 

Lance’s head lolls down, chin to his chest, one arm still over Keith’s shoulder. Breathing shallow, he tries to formulate a plan (and ignore the pain, the way his jeans are sticking to his legs, wet with rain, wet with blood). 

 

The stairs seem to stretch down forever. At least they’re intact, which cannot be said for the landing that lies behind him. Lance shudders to think where’d they be if they were just a few steps further when the roof had caved in. Definitely with worse injuries than this. 

 

Okay. Can’t think about that. 

 

Still, the walk down the stairs seems impossible, never mind how far it is to the front door, and then to the car…..

 

His thoughts are interrupted. Unbidden, one hand comes up to cover his mouth and nose.     

 

“Keith, I don’t think we have a minute.”

 

“What?”

 

It starts off faint, just a hint of acrid air, burnt---like a bad memory---but then it’s cloying, making his eyes water, threatening his lungs. The unmistakable smell of smoke. 

 

Keith coughs, wracking both their bodies forward. “This goddamn house.”

 

“ _ Thank _ you. I’ve only been saying that for the past, I dunno,  _ nine _ hours, so you’re a little slow on the uptake, but you got there in the end, so,” hysteria builds in Lance’s chest like the smoke that is filling his lungs. He chokes, clinging to Keith. “And I don’t wanna be a downer or anything, but, just saying, it’s not gonna be a walk in the park getting back to the car considering I can’t, yanno, walk---” 

 

His words are cut off into a squawk as Keith abruptly bends over and scoops him off the ground. 

 

“Keith!!” Lance scrambles around his neck, fighting the overwhelming feeling that this cannot actually be happening. “You can’t carry me!!” 

 

“Watch me,” Keith huffs, adjusting Lance in his arms. One arm curled around Lance’s back, the other just under his knees, mindful of the wound on his thigh. He starts down the stairs. They creak forebodingly, even above the din of the rain. He’s blind in the dark and Lance is half a head taller than him, at least, but despite the circumstances, he takes the stairs at an impressive pace, careening downwards. He fumbles over the last one and overcorrects, skidding across the dance floor.  

 

Smoke is billowing in, combining with the humidity from the rain, making the air heavy. “Almost out,” Keith pants, more to himself than to Lance. 

 

“Onward, my handsome knight!” Lance flings an arm, absurdly flamboyant.

 

“I’ll drop you,” Keith threatens, tightening his grip. 

 

Lance points his toes, and instead of focusing on the pain, tries to decide if his foot is really going numb or what. “Oh daddy, I know you won’t~” 

 

Lance’s head swims as Keith nearly does drop him. “I’m gonna let that slide because of sheer blood loss, but no. That’s a solid no.” 

 

Lance laughs, a pure peal of amusement rising out of his chest, in spite of everything. He can’t see Keith’s expression, but he can picture the way his mouth is probably pulled down, halfway between a frown and a sardonic smile, one eyebrow playing at irritation. 

 

The support beam, or whatever the hell it is that fell, lies across the ballroom floor where they danced just a few minutes before. Keith circumvents it and the rest of the debris as quickly as he can, determined to get them out. The closer they get to the entrance, the further from the darkened, fire-damaged side of the room, and the more the smoke seems to dissipate. By the time they reach the door to the ballroom, they can almost breath easily.  

 

Keith keeps up his pace, stumbling out the door, down the hallway, back towards the entry hall. At the front door, he falters. Lance slides out of his arms just as Keith’s knees drop to the ground, both of them collapsing. Keith rolls over onto his back, chest heaving as he catches his breath.

“Hey, you okay?” Lance asks, one hand on his shoulder, next to him on the floor. 

 

Keith side-eyes him, nods. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, before replying: “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” 

 

Lance sighs as though he is very put upon. “You know, I never thought I’d say this, but thanks for getting us out of that ghost ballroom before the ghost lady chopped off my entire leg slash burned the rest of the ghost house down with us inside.” 

 

Keith’s mouth purses into one of his not-smile smiles. He shrugs. “Anytime.” He sits up and lifts his camera from his neck, checking for damage. When he finds none, he stuffs it in his bag and rises to his feet. He extends a hand to Lance, to help him up once more. “Ready to get out of this place?” 

 

“Babe, I thought you’d never ask.” 

 

Just a hand is not enough. A hand at the back of his arm, Keith gently gathers him in, hoisting Lance to his feet. 

 

“Should I---Can you walk?” Keith hesitates, worry about Lance’s injury evident on his face. 

 

Lance nods, determined. He’s seen enough action movies to know that he should probably be ripping up one of their shirts to wrap the wound on his leg and applying pressure and all that----but at this point he just wants to put as much distance between him and The Milford Estate as humanly possible. (Besides, he  _ likes _ this shirt.) He attempts to eschew Keith’s worry with his most charming grin. Though Keith looks far from convinced, he snakes an arm around Lance, once more supporting him. Lance grits his teeth as he limps, and together, they make their way out of the house. 

 

The sun has not yet risen, but the very beginnings of morning light creeps through the trees on the path back to the car. The rain has slowed. Lance turns to take one last look at the Milford house, but it’s deceptively peaceful. With the arm not slung around Keith’s shoulders, he holds up a middle finger in salute. 

 

Keith sees the gesture and, with the arm not looped around Lance’s back, joins him. They make their way back to the car. 

 

See ya, Murder Estate. Catch ya again, never. 

 

*

 

The sleepy little town outside of which the Milford House resides is too small to have a hospital that sees much action. The emergency room Keith and Lance burst into at ten ‘til five in the morning is all but deserted, save for a single nurse stationed near the entrance. 

 

She listens to Keith’s breathless explanation, surveys Lance’s leg with clinical detachment and pages a physician from three floors up while grabbing a blood pressure cuff. Without much fanfare, Lance is ushered into a curtained off room, handed a hospital gown to replace his jeans, some paperwork to fill out, and told to let her know if anything changes before the doctor arrives momentarily. 

 

“My blood pressure  _ miiiiiight _ be running just a little high tonight,” Lance tries to joke. Keith hasn’t said much since they left the house. He had basically shoved Lance into the passenger seat, ignored his inquires about the last time Keith was in control of four wheels instead of two, and shifted into drive at a breakneck speed. 

 

The joke falls flat. Keith is all nerves, whether from the drive, the harsh atmosphere of the hospital, or the situation in general. Under the unforgiving lights of the emergency room, he looks exhausted. His hair is frizzy and matted from the rain, dirt and ash are streaked across his pale skin, purple bags lie heavy under his eyes. Lance can’t look much better, he knows, but still. 

 

The worst thing though, is how Keith’s jaw is tightly set and he’s looking anywhere but Lance. 

 

Lance touches his fist to get his attention, maybe ease his hand out of the clench. Keith looks down at him, hesitant, and Lance motions for him to come closer, as if he’s going to say something. When Keith hunches down, Lance pushes the hair across Keith’s forehead to press a kiss to his temple. It feels natural, like something he’s done a million times. 

 

Keith finds Lance’s hand and threads their fingers together. He releases a breath he’s been holding. 

 

Lance’s heart catches. It’s a bit ridiculous---his leg hurts so bad he’s fighting back waves of nausea, but this little hint of affection wraps him in undeniable warm fuzzies. Is this them now? Keith had held him as they danced, laughing against him, pulling him close. Keith had kissed him, fierce and wanting. He squeezes Keith’s hand. There’s too much he wants to say. 

 

“Does it--does your leg hurt?” Keith asks him softly. His eyes are bloodshot and weary as they meet Lance’s. 

 

Lance is thinking of something stupid to say in response (to make Keith smile or groan or  _ anything _ that would take that look out of his eyes), but Keith continues before he can reply: 

 

“I’m sorry,” Keith swallows and looks away again, missing the way Lance’s face falls. “I shouldn’t have---I wasn’t thinking, and you got hurt because of it.” 

 

“Excuse you.” Lance jerks Keith’s hand, still in his, for emphasis. “Pretty sure I’m the one who followed you.” 

 

Keith opens his mouth, but Lance cuts him off. “Pretty sure that  _ I’m _ the one who went into that room in the first place. Pretty sure,” his voice rises over Keith’s protests, “Pretty sure that you didn’t  _ make _ me do anything, Keith, so  _ how could this be your fault _ and I’m pretty sure that you better stop looking at me with that ultra depressing guilt face, or---” 

 

“Alright, alright!” Keith concedes. “Fine, you got hurt and it was your own stupid fault.” 

 

“Exactly!” Lance nods, pleased. “Wait--” 

 

They both jump as curtain slides open just enough to reveal a face whose most striking feature is a large handlebar moustache. “Why, hello,” the man greets them, voice far too cheerful for this hour of the morning. 

 

“Hello?” Lance tilts his head. 

 

The face disappears from view. Lance looks up at Keith, whose slight frown of confusion perfectly expresses how bizarre that was. The face is, oddly enough, replaced by the man’s backside. He enters the room bottom first, backing up into it while he pulls a computer on a wheeled stand in with him. 

 

“Pardon me, just a moment here,” the doctor fiddles with the monitor, before turning around, apparently satisfied. “Now then.” He snaps on a pair of gloves and gives Lance a once-over. “No reason to delay the main event, come now, no need to be shy,” he motions impatiently for Lance to reveal the deep gash a few inches above his right knee.  

 

It’s a gruesome looking thing, jagged and bleeding. The doctor winces. “Quite the wound, I’d say.”  He asks a series of questions while examining Lance’s injury with a pen light: “When was the last time you had a tetanus vaccination?” 

 

“Never?” 

 

“Did you tell Jennifer--that’s who you spoke with earlier, fine woman, excellent nurse--of any pertinent medical history?” 

 

“I guess so?” 

 

“Allergic to any medications?” 

 

“Not that I know of.” 

 

“Ever come face-to-face with a pack of Yelmores and lived to tell the tale?” 

 

“Uhhh,” Lance looks to Keith for guidance. Keith is staring at the top of the doctor’s perfectly coiffed ginger hair, baffled. 

 

The doctor puts a finger to his nose and winks. He stows the pen light in the breast pocket of his white coat and types something out on the computer, before deciding, “Impressive laceration you’ve got here, my boy. But not to worry! Just a quick set of stitches and we’ll have you right as rain.” 

 

Keith’s hand spasms in Lance’s. “Stitches?” He swallows, several expressions passing over his face. 

 

The doctor hums an affirmative, either oblivious to Keith’s misgivings, or completely disregarding them. He returns to the bedside with several packages, a large vial, and a syringe. “First we’ll numb the corners,” he says, drawing the lidocaine up, conversationally. 

 

Lance makes a little noise of surprise at the sight of the unsheathed needle, which does not go unnoticed. “Scared of needles, are you? Best not to watch then!” Lance denies this, but the doctor motions for him to turn his head. Lance looks up at Keith, petulant, and mouths ‘ _ I’m not scared’ _ to which Keith mouths back, brow furrowed,  _ ‘What? _ ’  

There’s a slight sting as the lidocaine flushes the wound, followed by a strange feeling of wetness as the doctor debrides the cut. He changes into sterile gloves and readies the needle, blue thread.

 

The procedure doesn’t take long---this doctor has obviously done this before, many many times. The hemostats and scissors move rapidly between his hands as he stitches up the wound, chatting all the while in the same cheerful tone. The conversation is mostly one-sided, as Lance is too queasy to respond. Keith squeezes his hand so hard he thinks it might bruise. 

 

“Alrighty then,” the doctor says, taping down the large square of gauze with a flourish. “Good as new!”

 

“Perfect,” Lance croaks out. His throat feels dry. Maybe the night is finally catching up to him. He moves to get up, and the room spins. 

 

“Careful, now! You’re liable to tip right over!” Two sets of hands steady him. The doctor taps Keith on the shoulder with the back of his hand, then motions to the hall. “There’s a vending machine down the hall, just to the left of the waiting area. Shall we get the boy something to drink?” 

 

Keith nods, eyes darting to Lance’s face. “Be right back,” he says, taking off. 

 

“Ah, young love,” the doctor peels off his gloves, wistful. He smiles knowingly at Lance, the suturing instruments properly set aside, as he motions to Lance’s leg. “I imagine there’s quite the story to match, hm?”

 

“Dude, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Lance grins. 

 

“Oh I don’t know about that!” The doctor waves a hand, lost in thought. “I’ve had quite a few adventures myself, in my time,” He launches into a complicated anecdote that Lance can’t even begin to follow (the heck is a weblum????). Lance nods encouragingly all the same, settling back into the hospital bed, waiting for Keith to come back. 

 

Keith returns, shadowing Jenny, who brings a wound care print-out and even more papers for Lance to sign prior to being discharged. The paperwork takes longer than the actual stitches, but when Lance  _ finally _ leaves the hospital, it’s again with Keith’s arm around him, resolutely lending support. 

 

The only thing Lance wants is his sleeping mask and headphones and 8-12 hours of dead-to-the-world bliss. But Keith insists he eats something, and then he manages a short, albeit much needed, shower. By the time Keith collapses next to him in their motel bed, Lance is already fast asleep, exhausted. 

 

*

 

Lance hums in disagreement, leaning close to Keith on the couch. 

 

Keith pauses the video editing software. He crosses his arms and waits for Lance to continue. An expression crosses over his face that verges on contempt. The comment Lance was going to make dies in his mouth. He shrugs, lets out a breath. “Nevermind. Whatever I say is just going to make you mad.” 

 

“So don’t interrupt then.” Keith slips the headphones on over his ears, irritated. There’s a note of finality in his voice that makes Lance’s skin crawl. He pointedly ignores Lance and goes back to editing the footage, jabbing at the mouse far more aggressively than necessary. 

 

Lance picks up his phone and scrolls through insta for the upteenth time, miserable. This is not how today was supposed to go. He’s over at Keith’s place; the plan was to finally edit together the hours and hours of footage from the Milford house. But everything is wrong. This is not….them. 

 

It’s been a little over two weeks since they left the Milford house. 

 

Immediately following the shoot, Keith was subdued. Lance figured he was tired----understandable. Lance was tired too. The drive home was uneventful. Lance’s leg was sore, of course, but they picked up an ice pack and some ibuprofen from a gas station, no big, he dealt with the pain just fine. Keith wanted to take turns driving just in case it was a strain on his injury. Lance argued for the sake of it, but thought it was cute that he was so worried. 

 

When they parted, Keith looked at him with such tenderness in his expression, asked if Lance was sure he didn’t need help getting home? He was awkward and quiet, looking up at Lance with dark eyes. 

 

Lance shook his head, butterflies in his stomach. No, he would be alright to get home. 

 

He drove back to his apartment singing along with the radio too loudly. He unlocked the door, tossed his stuff on the floor, and dovetailed into the couch, giddy. Three days, two nights with Keith. Their playful bickering, Keith snuggled up with him in bed, the kiss, the  _ kiss _ , Keith’s obvious concern, his gentle tone….it all replayed in his mind like nothing else in the world was of consequence.  

 

He texted Keith, later on: 

 

**To Keith** : hey man, lmk when u want to get together to edit! we have our work cut out for us 

 

Keith didn’t respond. He doesn’t respond until Lance sent him another text the next day: 

 

**To Keith** : wanna edit today? I kno there’s a lot to go thru, so it’ll be tight but we can probably still get the video up on ur normal schedule 

**From Keith:** not today. I have videos backlogged to use so don’t worry about the schedule 

 

Lance reread the text, crestfallen. He attempted conversation, but Keith remained curt. 

 

And then, real life butted in. Lance had to work a bunch of extra hours at the craft store. His coworker, Maureen, her sister is having a baby so she’s taking time off. Yay! Congratulations, Maureen. But there’s no one to cover Maureen’s shifts….so. Lance ends up picking up the slack. It’s almost Halloween and in the land of retail, that means it’s almost Christmas, which means there’s a TON of stuff Lance has to do to keep the store in shape. When it’s all said and done, he ends up working eighteen days in a row before he has another day off. 

 

Eighteen days and not once does Keith contact him first. It hurts. A lot more than the stiches. And he doesn’t understand. 

 

So when he does finally go to his apartment and Keith opens the door to usher Lance inside, he’s nervous. Keith seems nervous too, guarded. And when Lance gets nervous, he’s loud. He jokes too much, too exuberantly. And then Keith gets annoyed. And then an annoyed Keith is a moody Keith….and everything is just....not what Lance expected.  

 

Lance sets down his phone. Keith’s eyes don’t move from the screen. Lance sighs, his head dropping back onto the couch cushions. “Yanno,” he starts. 

 

Keith takes his headphones off. “Yes?” He’s terse. 

 

“When you get mad, like, really mad, you clench your teeth.” Lance snaps his jaw shut, indicating what he means. “It’s really intense, man.” 

 

The look of indignation Keith gives him is so plain it’s almost comical. “I do not.” 

 

“Do too. You probably get hella headaches.” 

 

Keith huffs. “Well,” 

 

“Yeah, so.” Lance waves a hand through the air indicating a general idea of Keith’s wellbeing. “Stop that.” 

 

Keith frowns at him. “Wow. Thank you. Lance. Just come here, and solve all my problems.” 

 

Lance smiles at him, sweetly. “I try.” He tucks one hand under his chin and bats his eyes. 

 

Keith’s lips are pressed together tightly, but it’s obvious he’s making an effort to keep his expression blank. 

 

“Come on, Keithy, I know you wanna smile, show me those pearly whites,” Lance teases, sitting up on the couch. He plays at pinching Keith’s cheeks. 

 

“What the hell,” Keith laughs, swatting Lance’s hands away. 

 

Lance catches one of his hands in his own. “There it is,” he murmurs. Keith’s hand moves up his arm, gripping his bicep. Keith’s eyes are hesitant, searching, as Lance leans in. He kisses him gently, mouth moving against his at a languid place. When he pulls away, he grins at Keith like he just proved a point, “Much better.” 

Keith drops his grip on Lance’s arm. His laptop, sitting forgotten on the coffee table in front of them, goes black, switching to power saving mode. Keith spares it a glance as he shifts, just slightly further away. “Lance.” 

 

He looks….not like Lance wants him to look after being kissed. He looks conflicted. He looks like he doesn’t trust Lance? Doesn’t trust himself? Keith is always so certain, so determined. Lance doesn’t understand his doubt. Is it really so hard to believe that this could be good, that they could be good together? 

 

“Hey,” Lance says. “What is it? What’s wrong.”  

 

“I’m bad at this.” Keith tries. 

 

Lance wait for the rest of the explanation. Keith doesn’t make eye contact. Doesn’t attempt to elaborate any further. A guy can only be so patient. “Bad at…?” 

 

Keith sighs. “Relationships. Dating.”  He looks up at Lance. “You sho--” 

 

“Bullshit.” Lance decides.  

 

Keith looks surprised. His eyes harden. 

 

“You’re not ‘bad’ at this.” Lance is probably louder than he needs to be, but he doesn’t care. “Do you know that the night in the museum was the most romantic thing? Like, ever. You gave me the stars, Keith.” He frowns, trying to organize this thoughts. “When I woke up with you, in that shitty motel, nothing could have been more perfect. Nothing.”

 

This makes sense to him, how can Keith not see it?

 

“You literally  _ carried me out _ of a scene from a nightmare. You held my hand in the hospital afterwards. You’re not _ bad _ at this. That’s bullshit. You’re stopping yourself. I don’t get it.” He takes a deep breath. “Is it me?”  

 

“Lance, no.” Keith looks so wide-eyed, so stricken by his words but Lance keeps pushing.   

 

“Then, you’re scared.”  Lance decides. “But of what?” 

 

Keith shakes his head. 

 

“Because you know what scares me.” Lance shrugs, starts listing things off. “I’m scared of ceiling fans that spin when there’s no power. I’m scared of ghost wolves.” 

 

Keith snorts, despite himself, but Lance barrels onward before he loses his nerve. “I’m scared of needles. I’m scared of Victoria fucking Milford.” 

 

He thinks of the success of his older siblings, of his friends, takes another deep breath. “I’m scared that I’m not good enough.” Keith gaze snaps back to him, but Lance is looking at Keith’s woolly socks, how he has one foot tucked underneath him as he sits on the couch. He loves him, lame socks and all. He tells his lap, quietly. “I’m scared that if I do something that makes you pull away, I don’t have any way to pull you back.”  

 

His voice comes out steadier than he feels as he raises his eyes to look at Keith. “I’m scared that you like me just as much as I like you, but, for some reason...” Lance trails off. “So what are you scared of Keith?” 

 

Keith says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world: “People leave.”  

 

Eyes downcast, he clenches and unclenches his hand in a kind of weary anger. “And sometimes there’s no reason for it. Even if they don’t want to---Even if you think things are good. People leave. In every relationship, there’s always one person who cares more. One thing that can go wrong. And when it does, and you’re left with that feeling…that feeling that--” Keith peters out, shoulders hunched. Suddenly he looks very small. 

 

Ah. Lance gets that. He really does. Probably not quite like Keith does, but a fear like that, he can understand. That’s a fear that they can conquer together. 

 

“What if I have a really good reason to stay?” 

 

Keith stops clenching his hand. 

 

Lance repeats himself. “What if,” he scoots up closer, cups Keith’s cheek. He runs a thumb over the crest of his cheek, “I really love you, Keith?” 

 

Keith inhales sharply. He meets Lance’s eyes, searching. Lance holds the eye contact, serious for a moment, before raising one expertly groomed brow, an unspoken,  _ well? _

 

Keith’s expression finally settles into something familiar. One side of his mouth ticks up into a smirk, like he’s made up his mind. The look he gives Lance is finally Keith: firey and resolute. “Then, I guess,” he takes Lance’s wrist in his hand, pulling it away from his face so he can adjust their positions, “That’s a fear I have to get over.”  

 

Lance would have probably said something snappy in reply, because that was cute as hell, if it were not for Keith very deliberately pushing him back against the couch. He pins Lance’s wrist against the seat cushions. “Okay, now--” he starts, but Keith’s mouth is hot on the line of Lance’s jaw, disrupting his thoughts. 

 

“Hmn?” Keith pauses. 

 

“Nothing! Absolutely nothing to add!” Lance says. He can feel the smile that he loves curl against his own. 

 

The video, um, doesn’t get edited. 

 

*

 

A week later, Lance is standing in Keith’s kitchen making kissy faces at Keith’s orange tabby. Compared to the first time he visited Keith’s apartment at the beginning of the summer, she’s really warmed up to him (the black and white cat, not so much). Lance considers this almost as much of an accomplishment as wooing Keith. (That’s a joke. No really. Keith was much more difficult to woo). 

 

He’s making good on his promise to cook for Keith. 

 

Like he told Keith before, the best way to learn to cook is to just chill in the kitchen and absorb. Growing up with his mama’s cooking, and then later Hunk’s, he’s absorbed a lot. He chops up an onion, garlic, bell pepper---the trifecta of beginning a dish out right, as delineated by his mother---and preens as Keith watches with interest. Yeah, he can julienne. How’s that for boyfriend material, Keithy?

 

Keith’s in a good mood, Lance can tell. He sitting on the counter, flitting from one subject to the next, sipping his drink while Lance bustles around the kitchen. Lance doesn’t want things to get too disgustingly domestic though, so he does his best to keep Keith on his toes. 

 

“So basically,” Lance stops mid-stir to turn and give Keith a withering look, “I’m just supposed to  _ believe _ that this giant metal monster just came from the sky and only three boys and a random-ass dog saw it?” 

 

“It was in a rural area, Lance,” Keith sets down his glass, patience wearing thin. “It was probably dark, and it was in the fifties, so it’s not like they could---” 

 

“You just said it was ten feet tall, Keith!” 

 

“Reportedly!!! Reportedly ten feet ta---” 

 

Lance punctuates his words with a large spoon, jabbing the air, “Someone. Else. Would. Have. Seen. It!!” 

 

“There were tracks in the mud!” 

 

“Tracks in the mud?! Tracks in the mud, Keith?!” 

 

Keith throws up his hands in exasperation. “Hang on a sec, I have a really good article,” he mutters, sliding off the kitchen counter. He pads down the hall to his bedroom. 

 

“Oh, now he has an article,” Lance tells the cat. 

 

He bites his lip to tone down the ridiculous smile that’s making his cheeks ache. He’s never been so happy to argue with anyone in his life. He feels lucky----

 

Scriiiitch. 

 

Lance stops. 

 

There’s a rustle at the front door. 

 

It’s definitely the front door, right? It sounds like it’s right on the other side, right? Lance tightens the grip on his spoon. He calls down the hallway, tentatively: “Keith?”  

 

The handle turns. The door opens slowly at first--- 

 

A little noise escapes Lance’s throat. 

 

\----and then swings open. 

 

Revealing an exceedingly well-built man standing in the doorway. Lance gapes. He recognizes him from pictures but,  

 

“Shi---”

 

The man holds a finger up to his lips, grinning mischievously. He passes behind Lance, who can only watch, as the man ducks inside the pantry. 

 

Keith comes back down the hall, book in hand. It has little tabs sticking out from the pages, covered in notes. He has it opened to a specific passage, “Now, okay, so, like I was saying---” he stops, looking at Lance.  “Hey. Are you okay?” 

 

Lance nods, rapidly agreeing that he is okay. Dandy. Never better. 

 

Keith narrows his eyes. “Did something happen? Why do you look like that?”

 

Lance swallows, shakes his head. 

 

A soft knock from the pantry. 

 

“You are so weird.” Keith pauses, cocking his head. “Did you hear that?”

 

More insistent now. Knock, knock. 

 

Keith frowns. “What is that?” He cranes his neck to look around Lance. “Is something---”

 

Shiro steps out of the pantry. 

 

The book drops out of Keith’s hands. “Takashi?” He bursts into tears. 

 

“Keith.” Shiro holds out his arms, doesn’t even flinch as Keith throws himself into them. The man is a tank. 

 

Keith hugs him as tight as he can, barely managing to choke out, “You- you!! Ass!!!”

 

Shiro laughs, rubbing his back. “It’s good to be back.” 

 

Lance’s throat feels watery. Reunions always make him cry. He gives Keith a wobbly smile. “I’m gonna head out...we’ll cook another time, alright Keith?” 

 

Keith catches his hand. His face all red and blotchy, he sniffles, all snotty from the sudden tears. It’s a little gross. “Stay.” 

 

Lance can’t say no to that, but….

 

Shiro coughs. “Actually. If you don’t mind, I’d love to finally meet the guy my little brother has been obsessing over all this time.” His expression collapses into something sheepish, completely out of place on his chiseled features. “With that entrance though, you might feel a bit awkward staying. I understand if you’d prefer to catch up another time.”  

 

Lance shakes Shiro’s proffered hand. “No sir, I’d love to, if you’re sure you’d like me to stay.” 

 

Keith snickers.  

 

“What?”  Lance squawks, turning to Keith. 

 

“Such nice manners!” 

 

“I’m trying to make a good impression, Keith!” Lance pouts. “C’mon!” 

 

Keith laughs. “You do remember he’s seen all our videos, right?” 

 

“Oh.” Lance turns red. In that case…. 

 

Lance is in his element. It’s not long before both brothers are waxing poetic over his cooking. He regales them with anecdote after anecdote regarding his siblings growing up. He’s pleased to find that Shiro is quick to laugh, but more importantly, quick to tease Keith with stories of his own. Keith groans, but he’s the happiest Lance has ever seen him. He toes at Lance’s leg under the table, the both of them sharing secret smiles. 

 

*

 

Lance wakes up to the buzz of his phone. He grabs it and pulls the comforter back over him once more. The room is chilly and he’s in no mood to get out of bed just yet. He checks the text. 

 

**From Dani** :  Felicidades por el video, manito. For real hubiera estado tan asustado!!!!!

 

Lance frowns. The phone lights up in his hand. 

 

**From Giselle** : OMG LANCE 

**From Giselle:** thos views tho 

**From Giselle** : but ur leg is okay right????

 

Huh? Lance starts texting her back, since when are his siblings watching his videos in the first place? 

 

Keith rolls over, snuggling his face against Lance’s back. His voice is sleepy. “Lan’” he mumbles, “What’s going on?” 

 

Lance settles back down beside him. “I dunno? My sisters---” 

 

**From Luis** : (thumbs up emoji) 

 

“----and my brother---” 

 

**From Jess:** proud of you

**From Jess:** but ma is gonna flip if you don’t cut back on the swearing

**From Jess:**  ni siquiera puedo mostrarles a los niños she says but why would they wanna watch the ghost vid anyways idk 

 

“Both my brothers! What the hell?” He rereads the text from Jess. “What the heck! I mean.”

 

Keith peers at the screen from his spot, resting against Lance’s shoulder. He sits up abruptly. 

 

“What?” Lance asks him. 

 

“The video!!” Keith reaches across him, grabbing his own phone off of Lance’s nightstand. “It was scheduled to go live last night!” He opens the youtube app, looks at his channel’s page. 

 

“Which one?” They don’t always upload in the order they film, and some take longer to edit than others. 

 

The phone drops out of Keith’s hands, on to the bed. “Holy shit,” he breathes. 

 

Lance picks it up. Episode Seventy-Eight: The Milford House. 

 

98,852 views. 

 

“Holy shit,” Lance agrees. His siblings already watched it---his mother must have seen it almost as soon as it dropped and told them about it. Lance gets a little choked up. He tackles Keith to the bed in a hug. “You’re amazing Keith,” he sighs against his neck. “Your channel---” 

 

“Our channel.” Keith corrects. 

 

Lance squeezes him, plants the biggest kiss square on his mouth. 

 

Keith wrinkles his nose. “Morning breath.” 

 

“You know you love it,” Lance argues, kissing him sloppy all over his face. He thinks of something, “Wait til we tell Pidge and Hunk, they’ll wanna celebrate!!” 

 

Keith hooks his leg behind Lance’s knees to pull them together. “Us first,” he decides. 

 

*

 

The Blade is still not Lance’s favorite bar. But, considering it’s where he first met Keith, he can’t be angry when that’s where they agree to meet for drinks that night. 

 

Hunk picked him clear off the floor in a hug as soon as he was in arm’s length. He’s horribly smug, both at the view count on their latest episode, and at the fact that Keith and Lance finally got together. “Told you it was a good idea to help Keith with his videos.” Lance grumbles. He’s never gonna hear the end of it. 

 

Pidge buys everyone drinks to start the night off right. Cheers to red_lion_haunts, cheers to Keith and Lance. Lance spies a flush in Keith’s face that probably isn’t from alcohol. He’s too adorable and for the millionth time, Lance’s heart stumbles in his chest. He laughs too loud.  

 

The general consensus is that the next thing on the agenda has to be planning a halloween party. Shiro is back, they can invite Shay and Allura, of course Matt will come. Lance gives Pidge a hard time about whatever lame costume set their brother will likely rope them into. (The previous year they were Ed and Spike from Bebop and, cosplay, really?).  

 

Eventually the conversation finds it way back to the success of Keith and Lance’s videos. 

 

“Wait.” Pidge puts a hand up to silence the conversation. They look at Keith.  “Have you really not told him that you asked me to introduce you?” 

 

“Pidge.” Keith’s eyes narrow in warning. 

 

Pidge couldn’t care less about Keith’s warning. They explain. “He knew you from my facebook.” 

 

“OMG you facebook stalked me??” Lance crows in disbelief. 

 

“I didn’t!!” Keith protests. “You’re in a ton of Pidge’s pictures, so I just--”

 

“It was not subtle. Believe me.” Pidge smirks. They elbow Hunk, motioning with their eyes to how flustered Keith and Lance are, and share a smile. One hand flattening their hair into shaggy bangs, they do their best emo-Keith voice, “So, uh, Pidge, this guy, um, Lance, I think his name is--”

 

“I don’t talk like that!” Keith swats at Pidge. They easily evade, moving their drink out of the way.  

 

“You totally knew who I was,” Lance decides, disbelief gradually settling into a smug smile. “And this whole time--” 

 

“Okay, but dude, you can’t act like you didn’t have the biggest crush on Keith after like, one second.” Hunk says. 

 

“Hunk!!” Lance is scandalized. “I didn’t!” 

 

“After meeting him at the bar, you asked me if he had any leather pants.” Pidge deadpans. Lance’s entire body flushes hot. From his collarbones up flares an impressive red. 

 

“Leather pants?” Keith wonders, turning to Lance. 

 

“It just seems like something you would wear!!” Lance tries to explain, voice cracking. Unwittingly he digs himself deeper, “You were dressed all ‘edgy’ I mean, I like it, no complaints here, but, so, the leather jacket, it could have pants to match,” 

Hunk shows mercy by cutting in. “Basically, you really swept him off his feet.” He grins at Lance. “Get it, because he carried you out of the house that time,” 

 

Lance groans loudly enough to cut him off, “Huuuuuuuuunk.” But Keith is still giggling…. 

 

Lance developed a crush on a caricature. The night he’d binged watched all of red_lion_haunt’s videos, he decided that this Keith guy was a certain type. He liked him-- his voice, the way his hair fell in his eyes, the slant of his half smile. They’d met at The Blade, and Keith’s fingerless gloves and broody, sullen expression only intensified the persona Lance had built up for him. Mysterious. Attractive. Badass. A loner. 

 

But Keith isn’t that one dimensional. No one is. Keith isn’t a ‘loner’---- he’s a person. And although stereotype-Keith comes off as being callous or aloof, that’s the very opposite of real-Keith. Real Keith who giggles at puns. Real Keith who combats loneliness with his hobbies, genuine enthusiasm tumbling out of his mouth if given the chance. Real Keith who tries to dismantle the walls he’s built up for years, as soon as a pair of pretty blue eyes meet his. 

 

Not everything is perfect. 

 

Because, yeah, Keith is still moody sometimes, and letting people in takes practice. And Lance is kinda insecure sometimes and a little too flippant at others. But. It’s them.  

 

*

 

Lance holds Keith’s hands in his, rubbing them together, he breathes warm air over his fingertips. “Babe, they’re so cold, I know you’re going for a  _ look _ , but we have to get you some real gloves.” 

 

Keith rolls his eyes. “Gloves or no, my hands are always cold.” He pulls out of Lance’s grip and adjusts his camera. “You ready to get started?” 

 

Lance looks up at the abandoned farmhouse, apprehensive. One of the shutters clatters in the wind. The moon hangs big in the sky, casting shadows over a dead tree all shriveled up in the yard. Where does Keith find these places??? He shivers. 

 

“I dunno man. Looks kinda haunted,” he whispers conspiratorially, “Hey Keith, I dare you to go inside.” 

 

Keith raises his brows, unimpressed. “I dare you to follow me.”  

 

Throwing an arm over Keith’s shoulders, Lance snaps the camera on, starting the vlog. It’s time to hunt some ghosts. He winks into the lens, “Welcome back to our channel!!” 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Did things play out like you thought? Leave a comment if you want to, it makes me happy. If you’re sad to say goodbye to keith and lance, ghost hunting au version, don’t be too troubled. I have a oneshot planned. :>

**Author's Note:**

> like always, find me @jacqulinetan on twitter


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